


A losing game

by notyourown



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Development, Consensual, Crime Scenes, Developing Relationship, Drug Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Tension, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts, Unconventional Relationship, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-09-17 08:25:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 38,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9313415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notyourown/pseuds/notyourown
Summary: Mickey Milkovich is a brilliant criminal. A proper genious. Also, a sociopath.Ian Gallagher is a man fresh from war. A soldier haunted by his memories.When they meet, is there a chance for Mickey to feel something, for the first time in his life? Is there a chance for Ian to have a break from the overwhelming rush of his past traumas, always just a step behind him, ready to push him over the edge?(Very loosely Sherlock inspired)/ Trigger warning. Description of past violence. Explicit PTSD symptoms. Suicidal thoughts. Drug abuse.





	1. So changeable

_November_

 

The rain poured heavily on the rooftops. The skyline was purple, reminiscent of a long lost sun behind the heavy lids of warm, humid clouds. It wasn't a storm, no. It wasn't loud. The world didn't halt to a stop, the night didn't feel gloomy. No, it was something else. It was as if the universe poured joy all over Earth, the sole center of it being the rooftop under which he stood, his face bright with a sudden splash of colour. He loved this. _Oh_ , how he loved this.

It was a strong feeling of invincibility. A rush of adrenaline ripping right through every pore of his being.

"Fucking hell. That was brilliant."

"Yeah. Fuck off now." he said with a grin on his face. _Oh_ , how he loved this. If only the man in front of him would leave now, leave at last, leave him be, let him enjoy it until it all wears off and he is back to his old, miserable self again.

Well, not miserable. He is a genious and he is finally out of jail. Who would have guessed, just three months ago, that Mickey Milkovich, the South side thug, would have managed to basically blackmail the whole police department into letting him out if he helps them with an occasional case. All under his own circumstances. The priority was, of course, not being found out. Don't want people to think a Milkovich would ever snitch. And he wasn't, not really. He was just doing what he had to do to be free and to be, well, not-bored. This seemed to be doing the trick for the time being. The pay wasn't so bad, either. Not that he lived off that shit, he had already got a beautifully orchestrated illegal business going on. The only difference was, he was a silent partner now. Philip Gallagher sure understood how computers worked. And Mickey? Well, Mickey understood basically everything.

He left the building, letting his shoulders get damp under the wet stream of liquid pouring from the skies. The smile still lingered on his pale face as he decided where to go next. His apartment seemed like the best idea, although a not very interesting one, but it would have to do for the night. It was, in fact, raining and he was feeling particularly satisfied with himself, so it might be best to call it an evening.

As he entered his living room, an intense smell of liquor overwhelmed his senses. Ah, no place like home. He poured himself a glass of whisky, neat; and sat into his old, leather chair. The only thing, except for his guitar, that he took from the Milkovich house when he was let out of prison. His brother Iggy was now living there with his wife and their twins and after exactly 3 days there, Mickey had realised it was no place for a high-functioning sociopath who, at days, can't even stand the smell of human flesh, let alone the sound of their little, silly voices. God, those voices, they haunted him wherever he went. Everyone after him, pleading him, asking him for something, latching onto him as if he had all the answers. Yes, of course he did. But that didn't mean he had any intention of making himself anyone's personal guru. No, he didn't care about Joan's migraines or Iggy's never-ending fight with Joey. No, he didn't care the twins had just started walking and no, he didn't want to watch them. Although, kids could be amusing at times. Unfortunately, these speciments were just annoying. _Ugh_. And Joan. _Fuck_. Mickey knew he was attractive, but could you be any more obvious? It was clear Iggy was closer to drugs than he was to her. Was there ever a time his pupils _weren't_ dilated? And his jaw, could it stand still for a second? _God_. Joan's advances were fairly innocent: smile just a little too wide, eyebrows just a little too tense, gaze just a little too long. Too little for anyone to notice. Anyone but Mickey.

So he wouldn't smile back. He would just raise his eyebrows rudely, hoping she'd get the hint. Luckily, he was out of there before he got a chance to find out for real. He walked around, found an advert for an apartment and here he was. Perfect. Just dark enough for when  he couldn't open his eyes to face the world, just spacious enough to conduct an occasional experiment, just shabby enough for no one to care if he blew the whole place up one day. Just perfect.

Now he was in his chair, a cigarette on his lips. God, he could never get bored of those. It was weird, even he couldn't rationalize it, but there was something about cigarettes that could keep his attention for over than a minute and it baffled him ever since he had his first drag when he was nine and Terry decided he was old enough to become a man at last. Ah, a man. He was a lot of things: smart, efficient, fast, strong, firm, cruel even. But he wasn't a man until he had a cigarette in his mouth and a woman around his waist. Well, the latter was what he had always struggled with. It was easy to find someone who was interested, for the night at least, but _being interested_ is what he had issues with. It took him months to rationalize it. He went through every factor in his mind palace, through everything that made a woman what she was: her personality, her brains, her looks, her history, her (mental) health, her origin, her friends, her associations, her education, her choices, her beliefs, in short: everything he could think of. For every woman he ever met, he did that, trying hard to deduce what exactly made every single one so dull and unstimulating until he finally, finally realised. Everything. It was absolutely everything.

His first guess was he was gay, obviously. So he expanded his experiments onto men, and onto every gender in general, just to come up with the same exact conclusion. Boring. Predictable. Normal. Needy in all the wrong ways.

So, not straight. Not gay. Not bisexual. Not pansexual. Asexual? That had to be it. The sex he did have was the same as the people he had it with: a predictable set of formulas designed to make you come. Well, he could do that very well on his own, thank you. Not asexual, no. Just—bored. That was his final diagnosis. He was utterly bored with everyone he ever met and that is exactly why he couldn't feel attraction to any of them, ever.

Ugh. Fucking people. Just going around, chest full of expectations. It's not his goddamn job to please everyone and it shouldn't be a job anyway, should it? So he was better off himself on his old chair, with his beaten-up guitar and the familiar scent of whisky on his soft lips.

 

* * *

 

 

When he woke, a dimmed ray on sunshine set light to his chair and his face, pressed into it. When did he even fall asleep? Must have been somewhere between thinking about the last case and wishing someone would call with the next one, or with anything really, anything to make his brain stop rotting in his skull. The phone never rang. It was ringing now, though, vibrating actually, and he picked it up when he saw who was calling.

"Yo. I'll be there in 10."

"Bring coffee. Need stimulans."

"What, that big brain of yours not working?"

"Ha. You wish, bitch."

After a warm, light laughter escaped the man on the other side of the call, Mickey hung up and went into his bathroom to freshen up.

He had just returned to the living room to try and tidy up a little when his doorbell rang. He walked over his little flat to open it. Lip wasn't a bad sight to see. He was definitely hot, his messy curls falling into his eyes, his giant blue eyes piercing the slow pace of the morning, his strong arms holding two coffee mugs. Definitely attractive. Not stupid, either.

Not gay, either. Or was he? That was still a deduction obstacle. Not that Mickey wanted a relationship or anything. Fuck, those are annoying. This was plain curiosity. For the first time, well, ever, there was someone Mickey couldn't quite figure out; his whole personality seemed like a web of contradictions: Smart, brilliant at times, but not smart enough to care. Attractive, very, but not stupid enough to be charmingly oblivious about it. Poor, but too afraid to change it. (Well, Mickey was working on getting that one out of the way.) Straight, almost too straight for it to feel real. Mickey heard him announce what felt like a thousand times (when, in fact, it was just two) just how much he loved women, but he never mentioned anything about men. He didn't hear him deny it, either. It seemed almost as if- as if he never gave it any thought whatsoever. Mickey knew Lip was too smart for that to have been the case, so he figured there was a reason why Lip tried so hard to completely take that possibility off the table and off his conscious mind.

Curious. Mickey was definitely curious.

Still, he had been informed that asking people blatantly about their sexual preferences could be considered prying and rude and, what was the word, inappropriate, so he didn't say anything. He barely knew the guy.

Maybe he'd have to find a different way to settle this little dilemma.

Maybe.

"Yo." the man said with a smile on his face and offered Mickey one of the mugs in his hands. Mickey took it on instinct and smiled back politely, although somewhat stiffly, to the man across from him.

"Get in. We got a job to do."

"Right to it, huh?"

"Taking too much of my time as it is. Give me the laptop."

The man obeyed and handed Mickey the gadget carefully. "I was able to hack the Missing person's directory and find what we were looking for."

"Wipe that smug grin off your face, Gallagher. I could teach a pigeon to do what you did." Mickey teased, silently content with the man's work. It had been one day, after all. He was proving to be reliable and Mickey liked reliable. "Took you long enough." he raised an eyebrow, hoping his disapproval to be a convincing one.

"Half an hour." Lip just said, still grinning cockily. "Pigeons." He added after a pause, shaking his head sarcastically.

"Are you really implying to be proud that you, a human being with an above-average IQ, could hack something faster than a pigeon? Well, congratulations." Mickey retorted effortlessly, his eyes on the computer screen, the majority of his concentration there, and Lip could do nothing but laugh.

"Did anyone ever tell you you're a dick?" Mickey heard the words in the background and made no attempt in shifting his focus from the computer.

He huffed. "Did anyone ever tell you you got no reason whatsoever to act as if the world would collapse without you around to keep everything together?"

Lip laughed again. What's with him? Most of the people would be offended by now, but he just seems—amused. The thought itched at the back of Mickey's head and he looked up to the man casually drinking coffee on his sofa. "No clever comeback?" Mickey smirked, intently following the man's eyes as he shifted his gaze from his mug to Mickey's eyes and just stopped there.

"Wouldn't wanna say anything to make your brain rot in your skull so I opted out for silence instead.“

How did he? "How did you-"

"How did I what? How did I predict your thinking process? Because, Mickey Milkovich, you might be smarter than most people, but I'm afraid your preoccupations are fairly obvious. You want, no, you need to think all the time, you need to know, you need to see, to be more than a step in front of everyone, always. And you feel like, right now, you're at least three steps in front of me and it's boring you. So I chose to shut up and reduced the difference onto two. Now, with this little monologue, I have reduced it onto one. Just one tiny step."

Mickey watched him intently, curious and unexpectedly amused. Lip was fucking clever and so beautifully full of himself it actually took Mickey's breath away for a moment. Just for a moment, though, because the next one he was already on his feet, walking over to him and sitting on the sofa. He observed the look on Lip's face change into a kind of a puzzlement. "Two." he just said, hoping Lip was able to catch on. He leaned in and placed his lips on Lip's, realising just then what a pun that actually was. Lip tasted soft, warm, a latte macchiato taste and Mickey enjoyed the little puffs of air the man took as he was trying to catch up with what was going on. He was returning the kiss, though, a little hesitantly at first, but after some time, Mickey even felt his shoulders relax under the careful touch of his fingertips. "Three." Mickey just said when he broke the kiss and he went back to the laptop on his kitchen table as if nothing happened. He continued to research the data Lip collected, his eyes following every letter, every code rapidly, and the man on the sofa didn't speak for some time.

"This is all a game to you, huh?" he finally said and Mickey smiled unconsciously.

"Of course it is a game. What's life if not a game?" he simply answered, unbothered, not even looking up from the screen.

 


	2. Many happy returns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian is back from Iraq. Chicago suddenly doesn't feel like home anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Suicidal thoughts. PTSD. Mention of past violence.

_Early December_

 

It was early afternoon and the air was pressed tight onto his cheeks. He missed this. The Iraqi heat did very little to remind him of the sharp Chicago winters he had been missing for the past four years. So now he was back here, standing in front of his childhood home, not moving. His feet were pressed hard on the wet concrete beneath him and he felt his whole body tremble lightly. He was back here, back for good, everyone he had ever known right there, but a universe away from him. _Who were those people inside?_ His sibilings, Frank, his friends _, who were they_? He felt as if Chicago momentarily grew infinitely warmer and he had to unbotton a couple of buttons on his shirt so he could breathe properly. His heart was beating hard in his chest. Three days ago, just three, he had been in the hospital, the smell of death all around him. Now all he could smell was the foggy breath of early winter and a strong sensation of weed all throught the street. Some things never did change.

But he did. He changed. He changed so much he felt as if this life and everything it had to offer was now distant to him, unreachable. People in his life, they were strangers now. Friends he made in Iraq, they were dead now. Everything he ever loved was gone and he was left with an overwhelming feeling of absolute loneliness.

If only he could have stayed in Iraq. If only he could have died there.

But he was here, instead, retired by a wound to his shoulder. And no matter how far from that hospital he was, everything reminded him of that day. _Attacking a hospital, how cruel could the world get?_

_Taking everyone, everything from him, how cruel could life get?_

But there was no point on dwelling on it. His subconcious mind did more than enough of that, which was displayed magnificently through his nightmares for these past two weeks. He would wake up, the sheets beneath him soaked from his sweat, his shoulder aching. Panic attacks, the therapist said. Drink your pills, she said. And he did. It's just- it wasn't helping. He hadn't slept through the night in two weeks and his shoulder pain didn't seem to be subsiding. Nothing was working and they shipped him back home, _ha, home,_ as if he had a home anymore _, as if anyone cared, as if anyone understood-_ and here he was, on his treshold, holding a duffle bag and knocking on the door of his childhood home. He wanted to run, run somewhere, anywhere, but he had nowhere to go. There was no one to press pause when he was shipped off and resume now he is back, no one at all to pick at least one of the broken pieces of everything he ever was up and mend him back together. There was no one there. The pressure kept rising in his chest, just knocking made him realise everyone was going to be so happy to see him and asking him a bunch of silly questions and waiting for him to tell his stories and he is going to have to pretend he doesn't mind and force his mind to think of some, at least a couple, happy moments and to shove all the traumas deep, deep inside so his family didn't start asking about those. No, he didn't want to talk about it, he wanted to forget, he wanted to end it, he wanted it all to stop. All the dreams, visions, questions, pills, scars, tears. He wanted it gone.

He knocked anyway, he kept knocking, and his 30-something-year-old sister opened the door. He observed her eyes widen and her lips stretch into a smile. He mimicked the expression. The next thing he felt was her cold hands around him, holding him tight. It would have felt kind of nice if it wasn't trapping him, holding him firmly, just like that gigantic piece of the wall pressed onto his shoulder for hours, leaving permanent marks on his tender, pale skin. And now, just like that, he was back there, the hold just a little too tight and his breathing was getting out of hand and now there was Carl, too, and they were squeezing him and the air grew thicker around him and-

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I just-" he crawled out of their hold slowly and took a deep, steady breath.

"You okay?" Fi asked with a hint of worry in her eyes.

"Yeah. Yeah. All good." he answered as he felt his heartbeat slow down gradually. "Got anything to eat?" he asked, realising he wasn't hungry at all, but it seemed like a good way to break the awkward dynamic of the moment.

"Sure, sure. Let's go in." she smiled sheepishly and stretched her arm to lead him into the house, but she reconsidered and made a _come-here_ gesture with it instead. Ian felt the care grow in her eyes, so he smiled brightly, trying to reassure her.

"Why didn't you say you were coming already? We would have picked you up on the airport." she asked, getting some leftover food from the fridge.

"They moved my flight up, I thought you were all working or something."

"Oh, yeah, I just got home and Carl is on a break from his training. Right, Carl?"

"Yeah. Navy."

"Oh, really? That's great." Ian smiled, his smile genuine, although he couldn't help but wonder if he should stop his little brother from ruining his life. Killing and fearing of being killed takes a spark of colour from the deepest places inside of you and it leaves you empty, searching for something always out of reach. Carl seemed happy, though, seemed proud of himself and that convinced Ian to shut his mouth this time and let his brother make his own choices. Navy wasn't as bad, anyway.

Before anyone could say anthing else, the back door of the house swung open to reveal Lip and some guy talking and laughing about something. Lip looked good. Seemed like alcohol was finally out of the picture there. And the guy- the guy looked even better. His black hair slicked back, his blue eyes sharp, his hands in the pockets of his jeans. The man looked at Ian, dumbfounded. Ian smiled.

"Ian, man, hey, didn't know you were here already." Lip said as he leaned forward and hugged his little brother. Not too tight. All was good.

"Yeah, they couldn't wait to get rid of me, I guess." he smiled and put his hand out for the mysterious man in Lip's company. "Ian." he simply said, and the man took his hand loosely.

"Mickey Milkovich." he heard the man say coldly, as if all this was utterly boring, as if this whole little family moment made his stomach clench, as if he just wanted to get on with it and onto something that wouldn't bore him to death. Still, his eyes stayed on Ian's, watching him for a couple of seconds.

"Mickey's a friend. We're working on some shit together." Lip cut in. "Come on, Mickey. The laptop's upstairs." Lip walked and Mickey followed, his head obviously somewhere else.

Ian watched for a second as two pairs of legs went up the stairs before sitting down to eat what Fiona had served him. He tried to eat, he really did, but food seemed to turn to stone  in his mouth and his stomach made it clear enough the intrusion wasn't welcome. So he stood up, apologizing, and went upstairs to take a shower.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They got into Lip's old room, it was so much closer than his apartment, and Mickey liked the old posters taped on the wall. He sat on the bed and turned the laptop on, but something kept bugging him and he was not letting it go.

"What's with your brother?" he asked, his eyes on the screen.

"Huh? Which one?"

"The, uh-red, army, left shoulder injury, PTSD, medical tehnician, can't stand to be touched-one?"

"2 seconds, Mickey. You met him for two seconds. How?"

"Well, he is wearing army fatigues and  his left shoulder twitched when you hugged him, he was a second away from freaking out but was calm and focused enough to endure the touch. Hence, PTSD and he taught himself how to live with it, hide it, because he's seen it a number of times already, first hand. Not a doctor, though, because he had clearly been in Iraq for at least 3 years, which is evident in his tan, he used to be pale but constant exposure to sunlight made his skin two shades darker and he's got sun induced spots on his cheeks and nose, so he couldn't have finished medical school that young unless he was some kind of a prodigy, which he is clearly not. Also, he's gay."

"Ha. How did you figure that one out?"

"He likes me. Likes the way my fingers were hooked to my jeans. Likes the way I comb my hair. Pretty obvious. Hasn't been with anyone in a while, army wasn't very fruitful in that area, surprisingly enough. Wants sex, but he's afraid of being touched. Wants a relationship, but he can't imagine sleeping in a bed with someone and waking them up every night screaming."

"How did you-" Ian's voice was right behind him, but Mickey didn't even twitch. He just smiled and lit a cigarette, taking a puff. He breathed the smoke out of his lungs and simply stated, turning to Ian: "Didn't you hear? I'm the mad genious around here."

He took the flash drive from Lip and winked at him teasingly, turning around towards the door. Ian's eyes met his and Ian was… smiling _? Why was he smiling? What's with this family?_ He reached the door and just when he was about to leave, Ian spoke.

"You were wrong about one thing, though. I don't like you."

At that, Mickey turned back and leaned into the door behind him. "Of course you do. You're just not ready to know it yet."

Ian chuckled. "And why's that?"

"Because it would be too meaningless for you. And war taught you not to dwell on the meaningless. Now your brain is applying that rule whether you like it or not. But all this I'm saying, it's giving it meaning. Suddenly my fingers in my pockets aren't just fingers in pockets anymore, they're in your hair, aren't they? Gentle and brief, just how you like it. Not trapping you. Not holding you down. Just… caressing. Suddenly my eyes aren't piercing through you, they are an ocean of possibility." he pauses briefly before continuing, the tone of his voice smooth in Ian's ears, confident, as if the world wasn't a mystery at all, as if there wasn't a thing in the universe this man couldn't read with a single look. "Yeah, you see it now. I'm Mickey Milkovich and you are officially fucked. Maybe there's something to live for, after all?" he ended his monologue and took a second to watch the man's reactions. Ian's shoulder twitched at Mickey's implicit observation and his eyes stared at him, wonder and pain entertwined. A second later, he was upright again, every spark of fear and sorrow and confusion gone from his eyes and his posture. Mickey turned around and left the room, leaving the two men speechless. After a minute, Lip spoke.

"Sorry, he gets a little intense at times."

"No, it's, uh, it's okay. He's kinda interesting, actually." Ian said, his eyes fixed on the door.

"Ian, don't tell me he was right."

"Well, he wasn't wrong." he just noted, a small smile tugging at his lips. He left the room and went into the bathroom to take a shower.

Fuck, it hurt. Physical therapy was doing little to help his shoulder pain and it would take months until he could try to apply for an EMT position here in Chicago. He had to figure something about the money until then and he made a mental note to ask Lip or Fiona for advice on that. It had been four years after all and there wasn't much he could do with this injury. Still, he needed to do something, anything, needed to keep himself busy, to do anything in his power to unsee the images stuck in his head. He got into the shower and let the hot water leave red marks on his skin, relaxing him and washing off traces of sun and dirt and death that kept lingering all over his body. _How did that man, Mickey, how did he know about the- and the- and- What was that whole scene, actually? Just a weirdo bragging about his skills? No, but he was cautious, he didn't want to overstep, that's why he only implied. If he wanted to brag, he'd just go right out and say it, say it- but he didn't. What was this about, then? It was almost as if the man was interested. But why would he be interested in a mentally unstable, suicidal, wounded ex-soldier with no life and no future? Why would anyone ever be interested in someone stuck in his past, unable to breathe or to move or to function properly? That can't be it, but nothing else comes to mind._ Who was that guy, anyway, and why did Ian have the sudden urge to listen to him talk, just talk, about whatever, anything, everything, as if he had something to say, something to make Ian hurt less and want to live more?

A sudden splash of disbelief flooded him as he realised. For the first time in two weeks, he was actively thinking about something, someone, who wasn't dead, wasn't traumatised, wasn't in his past. He was thinking about a guy he met for two minute, one of the strangest men he'd met in a long time. Possibly ever. He was attractive, confident- too confident. But he was also kind of lost, lost in thought, lost in his own head, lost in his own words. He saw everything, saw right through Ian, right through his whole army facade. Yet, there was something strange about it, as if the man was perfectly capable of reading into everything without understanding a single word of it, a single emotion. As if everything he saw in Ian impressed him, not because it was new or unpresedented, not because Ian was in any way unique, but because there was something there, something raw, something inexplicable. No matter how many words you apply, how significant your deductions might be, there are some aspects of human life that kept escaping words and Mickey Milkovich saw a little bit of that mystery in Ian. He wanted to solve the mystery, Ian was sure, he craved it. But he couldn't because you had to feel some stuff in order to untangle the web of human life, you had to reach deep down into yourself in order to scratch beneath the surface of anyone's facade. And feeling that, experiencing that, that seemed to be something Mickey Milkovich wasn't comfortable with. Ian felt a sudden rush, his heart nearly fluttering. _What was that? Desire? Need? No. No. No. No. It felt more like---_ Curiosity.

_Maybe we weren't as different after all._

Maybe there was something there, something Ian wasn't used to, some kind of energy drawing him to the man, but he didn't want to just fuck him, he wanted- what did he want? _What was it?_ He was drawn to the man, everything about him was electrifying, surprisingly entertaining, smug, unapologetic, unabashed. Ian loved it. Like the man had no filter and saw no reason whatsoever why anyone should have one. But what did it all mean? Did it mean anything at all? Was he making a move on him or just keeping his mind busy for a minute? Was he even gay? Somehow, Ian figured, he didn't seem like the relationship type. Not that Ian was. Boring, predictable, too familiar, trapping. Takes all your energy and leaves you empty in return. But friendship? More than friendship, less than a relationship? Did that even exist? A myth, probably. But myths were cool, they were fun. Experimenting was fun. And for the first time in a long time, he felt as if he was down for some fun.

Life is shit, anyway. It gives you lemons and you try so hard to make a lemonade for it to only squirt in your eyes and leave you blind forever. But blind people lived, too.

They loved.

They slept. They woke.

And so will he.

 


	3. Human error

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian and Mickey establish a relationship. The game's afoot. 
> 
>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Mention of past violence. Visual representation of past death. Mention of past emotional trauma.

_January_

 

"I was able to highlight the names we could use. Old, forgotten about, little or no family. Very convenient." Lip smiled, a questioning look on his face. As if he was waiting for something. What was he waiting for? _Oh._

"Yeah. Good job. We just gotta find some customers now, right?" Mickey grinned, satisfied with how fast and efficient this job was turning out to be.

"Right." Lip said, distracted.

Mickey started fumbling around, restless. His head was a mess, too many simultaneous things bubbling inside, so he enhaled sharply and stated: "It's not a girl, or you'd be texting her. It's not a job thing, you'd ask for advice. It's not a health issue, I'd have probably noticed something was off. Not any sort of stimulans, obviously. So, what is it? What's bothering you, something you don't think I can help you with, something too personal to just blurt out, but not personal enough to make you leave this shit for another time. So, family matter, I presume?"

The whole time of his little monologue, Lip had been watching him intently, amused and shocked in the same time. No matter how much time went by, he could never get used to this. But it was a fucking sight to behold. „Go on, I wanna see how specific you can get.“

"So. Mother dead, that's not it. Father missing for 3 months, that's not it either. The eldest sister, no. No. No. Has to be someone you're protective of. That means younger sibilings. Giving the fact you never see one of them, one of them is off to college, one of them is in the fucking Navy, that just leaves the pretty, little redhead. Blink for yes."

He blinked, smiling widely.

"Okay then, moving on. The redhead is back from the war with an injury, which he clearly obtained in battle. Battle leaves emotional scars and I've already seen his PTSD symptoms. You're worried about his health. But not just the shoulder, you're worried about him. He is probably displaying typical PTSD symptoms, panic attacks, shaking, losing his temper, lack of energy, depression, difficulty to deal with everyday activities. Blink for yes."

He blinked, the smile far gone from his lips, replaced by a strong uncertainity. Almost an urge to run, Mickey observed.

"You are worried and you don't know what to do. He is seeing a therapist, it's military prescribed, but you don't think they're helping. Your brother doesn't leave the house much and all your attempts in cheering him up have miserably failed. Bli-" but before he finished that sentence, Lip blinked slowly and a tear escaped his eye. It rolled down his cheek and Mickey somehow instinctively caught it with his fingers. Why he did it, he couldn't tell. It was like a natural reaction, except it couldn't have been natural because he'd never done it before. Usually, when people cried, he'd just leave them to it. Why bother with that sentimental shit? Seeing Lip cry, though, brought an unusual feeling of protectiveness somewhere on the surface and before he knew it, he was offering his help, unaware and unsure towards whom it had really been directed. Towards Lip? Towards Ian? Or towards himself? Probably all three.

"Don't do that." Mickey said, shaking his head slowly, watching the shaken up man carefully, tenderly. "I'll tell you what. He can work with me. He obviously can't work as a medical technician until his shoulder gets better and he probably needs some cash. I got a job for him."

"Let's not get my brother into our illegal shit, shall we?"

"Don't worry. I got something very low risk for him. And it'll help you keep an eye on him. Hell, I'll keep an eye on him for you. Fuck knows I see more than you could if you had two more eyes in that skull." Mickey was grinning now, a cigarette between his fingers. What had just happened, he had no idea, but it was different, it was new, it was fun. And fun was good. He could live with fun.

 

* * *

 

 

"Let's play a game." Mickey said and Ian had very little idea what was happening. He was sitting on a chair in Mickey's living room, drinking whisky to keep himself warm (and because it was the only drink Mickey had to offer except for milk, and he wasn't drinking milk when he was trying to look cool or whatever). Mickey was in his leather chair, relaxed, sipping on his own glass, holding it close to his mouth, but not drinking it, clearly enjoying the aroma more than the taste itself. He got here over ten minutes ago and Mickey didn't even seem to care, he was just sitting there, a glass in his hand and an old guitar by his feet, distracted and distant. After ten minutes he suddenly decided to speak and what came out of his mouth left Ian clueless as to what he was doing here and what Mickey was thinking and why he was even still there. He was obviously weirded out and Mickey didn't even ask why, hell, he didn't even seem to notice. But he probably did notice because he was Mickey Milkovich and he conciously made a decision not to say anything, not a word, for ten minutes, and that was the part that was confusing Ian the most. He got here because Lip said Mickey had some kind of a job for him and now Mickey was talking about some game and this was all getting just a little too weird. His instinct wasn't to run, to leave, not at all, it was the complete opposite. He wanted to wait and see what happens, to get to the bottom of all this, and it looked like he was finally about to be let in on Mickey's thought process. Hopeful, he decided to play by the rules.

"Huh? I thought you were getting me a job." He suggested questioningly.

"I am, I am." Pause. "I just wanna check a couple of things first. You know, for science." He announced.

"Huh?"

"Oh, get it together, Ian Gallagher. The game's afoot." Mickey said dramatically and Ian was now back to his initial state of absolute oblivion.

"Is that some kind of a reference I'm supposed to get?"

"Not a fan of Shakespeare, then. Pity." He frowned. Ian frowned back. "Tell me, what are you a fan of, then? Okay, this is what we'll do. I'm gonna quote some stuff and you're gonna focus. You have to focus so I can see when I'm right." Mickey raised his eyebrows. Ian mirrored.

"Okay?" Ian said, still trying to catch up, but Mickey was already lost in thought, clearly looking for the winning quote. A minute passed and Ian was getting impatient when he finally heard the man state:

"Patriotism is the virtue of the vicious." Ian frowned again. What was the point of this? To provoke him? To anger him? To explore how he percieved war or imperialism or duty or service or national identity? To find out why he joined the army? He relaxed his face muscles. Patriotism wasn't it. Patriotism had nothing to do with it. If anything, Ian agreed with the quote. Where was it from? Some kind of a novel, non-tradicional writer, probably not American. America was far too proud of its military doings- well, undoings, to let such words slip from the fingers of a mere writer. What right does a writer have talking about war or patriotism, like he experienced it, like he could ever know: that's how America thought. No, no. This was French or British or perhaps even Russian. No, not Russian. It sounded too strict, too final to be Russian. French or British.

"No, that's not it, is it?" Mickey asked, the question barely reaching Ian. The words sobered him up a little and he fixed his posture, focusing his eyes on Mickey. "Moving on in a different direction, then."

Silence.

"A thing is not necessarily true because a man dies for it." The words pierced the silence and it hit so much closer to home than Ian had anticipated. Still, his face remained expressionless and his lips shut. This kind of direct, unabashed proclamations had to be either British or French. But there was something about it, something chilling, that it made Ian convinced it had to, in fact, be British.

"Getting warmer, I see." Mickey said and Ian wasn't sure how he could notice. "Your shoulder twitched." Well, asked and answered. "Okay, fine." Mickey smiled, but Ian still said nothing.

Silence.

"An idea that is not dangerous is unworthy to be called an idea at all." Ian smiled at this, but Mickey didn't seem as convinced. "Very close, yes. But third had neven been the charm. Everyone stops looking after three, but, you see, that's where it gets truly interesting." Mickey cocked his head a little, observing Ian's expression. Then, without a pause, he stated: "It is absurd to divide people into good and bad. People are either charming or tedious." Ian smiled wider now, impressed. Mickey smiled too, clearly content with the result displayed.

"I think that one was more your style than mine, though." Ian said.

"Oh, absolutely, I was Oscar Wilde in my last life."

"So that's whose it all is, I knew it had to be something British." Ian shook his head, realisation hitting him.

Mickey smiled. "He got it right, didn't he?  You didn't join the army to fight, you joined it to get away, to run, to do something. You are not a patriot, not a murdered, not nearly naive enough to believe what you were doing was moral or in any way righteous. You are smart enough to know war is just an ideological chess board in which you were merely a pawn. You are smart enough not to give any meaning to the sentiment of patriotism because you understand it is a social construct designed to manipulate. You joined the army because you were bored and poor and you wouldn't mind dying if that means you get a chance to feel like you're doing something, like something is happening, anything, to make you feel less numb. To make you feel alive."

"Sounds about right, yeah." Ian nodded, laughing. "Incredible."

"Pretty basic, actually." Mickey tried, taking a puff of his cigarette and offering one to Ian. Ian shook his head in rejection to both the cigarette and Mickey's fake modesty.

"Come the fuck on, Mickey. Don't play modest with me. That was amazing." Ian kept smiling and eventually, Mickey smiled back, a cigarette hanging loose from his lips.

"Yeah, okay, I guess it could be considered brilliant or whatever." He stated, and when Ian raised his eyebrows in approval, he asked: "Having fun, then?"

"I am, yeah."

"Wanna have some more?"

"God, yes."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Simple enough. The lady, what's her name, Alicia, came through the back door. The body was already there, the woman having been killed earlier. The killer was probably thinking of a way to dispose of it and when Alicia stopped by, he had to dispose of her as well. That's why she died, that's why her death was messier and her blood was on the kitchen floor. Next, he dragged them into the freezer in the warehouse. Safe enough, deserted enough. So there you have it."

"There we have what?"

"Well, it's obvious who murdered them."

"It is?" Detective Jones was confused, as always, as she tried to catch up to the dots Mickey was metaphorically connecting. He was doing his job and she wasn't arguing, not at all, this kind of stuff was why she got him out of jail after all.  

"It was the husband. It's always the husband. "

"But he's got an alibi?"

"Yeah, what was it? He was with his friend? Get the friend down here, I gotta ask him something."

"Mikhailo, you know you can't-"

"Don't call me that. Only my mother called me that." He shook his head and added: "Wanna catch the guy or not?" He raised his eyebrows questioningly. When the Detective rolled her eyes, Mickey smiled cockily. "Then get his friend down here." He lit a cigarette, walking off from the mouldy warehouse. The day was still heavily sedated by last evening's snow and the air was just humid enough to allow one to breathe properly. So he did.

When the detectives finally arrived with a distraught, nervous man by their side, Mickey knew the game was on. The game was on and he loved it. The men approached and Mickey looked at the scared man carefully. New shirt, stylish. Old trousers, boring. His hair combed back, but a small stray of hair on the back left side standing out, obviously due to hurry. Or? What was it, if not hurry? Sex? No, too tense for a person who just had an orgasm _. No. No. No. NO. YES._ Distracted. He was distracted. He looks at the man once more, looks at him all over. Eyes red and drained. Mouth dry. Fingers sweaty. He didn't look like a good liar. _Let's find out._

"How long?" Mickey went straight to the point, his eyes pressed on the man across from him.

"Huh?" the man asked, confused.

"Fuck. It's years, probably, by the look of you. But he doesn't love you back, does he? He just loves his silly little wife. Fucking straight people, huh?"

"I- I don't- I don't know what you're implying." The man stuttered. Mickey just smiled at the sight. The poor guy.

"Oh, please. It's written all over your face. Guilty, but not guilty enough. Nervous, but not because faced to interrogation, not because you're scared of failing yourself. Because you're scared of failing somebody else. We both know that kind of sentiment isn't found in someone with a temporary crush, so, how long?"

The man watched Mickey talk like it was the most obvious thing in the world. His eyebrows fell and they raised again and Mickey had a look on his face, what was it? Pity, almost. He watched the man's tension grow as he tried to clear his throat with a slow, tentative cough. Mickey wasn't shifting his gaze elsewhere, he just leaned back and waited for the pressure to become too intense.

Detective Jones cut in.

"Don't let him bully you into lying for him. If it's been that long, chances are, you're not magically gonna end up together now."

At that, Mickey laughed mockingly. "Come the fuck on, Lisa. This isn't about them ending up together, is it, Mack?" He looked at the man behind watery eyes. "This is about him not wanting to fail the person he loves. But, Mack, dear, you don't get it, do you? The man you thought you loved doesn't exist, they never do. Ghost is what he is, at best. An illusion. You wanna know what the real deal is, though? He's a killer. He played ya for a fool. If you didn't say yes, he'd probably just off you as well. He's not the man you love, he is none of it. Would a man you love ask you to do this?" Mickey raised his eyebrows and swayed his head in a _follow-me_   gesture. He opened the freezer, two dead bodies still inside. The smell of rotten flesh engulfed the large room, but Mickey didn't even flinch to close it. He just stood there, watching hot tears pour from the man's eyes as he looked at the bodies cramped in a tight space, the surroundings red with dried blood. They stood there for a second. For ten seconds. The man shook his head hard, enough for his neck to hurt.

"It was- I was- I wasn't- I was in my office. It was late, no one else was there. He- he came to me, crying. I- I took the security footage, it's- it's in my flat."

"All is good, sir, as long as you're willing to testify in court." Detective Jones said, wrapping a warm hand around the man's back and leading him to the vehicle. She turned her head to Mickey for a moment and gave him a slight nod. He nodded back and his job there was done. He looked around the street and squeezed his eyelids when he found who he was looking for. He had seen Ian back inside, walking around, examining the bodies carefully, trying not to touch anything, trying not to anger anyone. By the time Mickey opened the freezer and Mack started crying, he saw Ian get out of the warehouse. Mickey knew the man would be waiting somewhere, probably outside, letting the cold January air calm him down and bring him to his senses. PTSD was a tricky thing to go through and maybe this was all a little too soon for Ian to witness. Mickey crossed the road and stepped over to the man, lighting a cigarette in the process.

"Not impressed?" He asked quizzically.

"Oh, no, trust me, I am." Ian just replied, his look wandering.

"It couldn't have been the blood, you're a medical technician. Trouble witnessing emotional trauma is the only remaining explanation. Too soon?"

Ian enhaled. "He- he was ready to lie for him. For a murderer." He shook his head in agitation.

"Yeah, turns out all that love shit makes you involuntarily unrecognizable to the person you thought you really were." Mickey stated coldly, his mind running. "I get it's all chemistry, but fuck, how does it work? And why do people spend their whole lives looking for it, trying to love or get someone to love them? Why would you let yourself lose all control, submitting yourself entirely to urges that defy everything we, as humans, believe makes us superior to other species?"

"You said it yourself, it's involuntary. You can't help who you love." Ian said softly.

"Oh, please do spare me the cliché statements. I understand the need for love, well, actually, I don't, but I understand it exists. But why run after it if it's ruining you?"

"Because" Ian said, reaching for Mickey's cigarette, taking a puff and throwing it on the floor."It's fun." He finished and turned his back to leave.

Mickey stood there for a while, thinking. Why did he take his cigarette? That was his cigarette. You don't just casually share cigarettes. Get your own damn pack or at least ask for a new one. Why was he all smug suddenly, acting as if he knew something Mickey didn't? Ugh. When did he shift from being traumatised to being a dick? And why so dramatic? What was that whole exit bit? And why was it so effective and left Mickey weirdly obsessing about it?

And, more importantly, was it really fun?

Because if fun is what it really was, there is no way in hell he was missing out on that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all of you who get all my Sherlock references: I love you. (and, yes, that's a Sherlock reference too.)
> 
> Also, all of my characters seem to be queer. I consider that a positive breach of heteronormativity forced upon us by the mainstream media.


	4. A dangerous disadvantage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The love story's afoot and it's cheesier than Mickey could have ever predicted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE:  
> The separated italic parts are Mickey's memories.

_February_

 

Chicago wasn't a city of stars. The romantic dramas could suck it. All he could feel, all he could ever feel, was moon casting light on his chair, whisky casting odour on his senses and a guitar casting touch on his fingertips. This wasn't a romantic drama, not because he hated romantic dramas, not because he would have been opposed to experiencing one, but simply because life wasn't a romantic drama no matter how close it would sometimes get to being one: it had to stumble and fail the expectations miserably. It was the way world turned and he was fine with it, he had to be, because he had no choice. Life and love and all those complex little emotions he ran after- why did he run after them? Rush, excitement, curiosity, you name it: all of them were true; and all of them shook him to the core, left him gasping for air, for explanation, for reason. All he believed to be true about him, what he was proud of his whole life, his ability not to feel, not to care, not to get sentimental, his ability to know better, to always know better: all of it felt like heating water now, slowly vaporising, leaving you with fog in your eyes, a silent promise never to return into the state you once knew and needed it in, latching onto it for dear life. Yet, you wanted it gone, you urged it gone, you set the flame and you watched it burn, you watched it leave, you smiled, it was fun. It was fun to you until it was too late. It left you with nothing but fog in your eyes. It blinded you beyond repair. There was nothing fun about it. It was hard, it was wrenching, it was sucking all life out of you.

Feelings. To hell with them.

You try to have them gone. You eat them, laughing with pride. You eat them all up: they are inside of you now, in anaerobical conditions, destined to die and decompose. So you laugh, you clever bastard. You keep laughing, but your look is still clouded and you're laughing. Louder. Prouder. For all to see: no one fucks with Mickey Milkovich.

A second later, something tickles at your throat. A second later, you are throwing up and the floor beneath you is covered in your insides, screaming out for you. They should be green, or mushy, or disgusting, but they are plain water. Plain water is on the floor, laughing at you, mocking you. Plain water. You move to step on it, and you do, you step on plain water on your floor, but it just turns into steam, clouding your eyes further, still laughing, still haunting you. The steam is in your eyes, in your mouth, it's everywhere. All that surrounds you is hot humidity, clinging onto your skin, entering your every pore. You are burning up. You keep burning. You can't breathe.

To hell with them, you get up and yell. To hell with them. But it's burning into you. Your skin is breached and your eyes can never clear. You feel it. So you sit back into your chair and you wake up.

You wake the fuck up.

Chicago was never a city of stars. The moon cast light on his chair. What time was it?

He reached for his pocket and took his phone out. The display read 5:25. It also read:

_Ian (00:44)_

_Had fun tonight_

Mickey rubbed his eyelids, trying to will away the haze his body was still in.

 _Me too_ he texted back before relaxing in his chair. He did have fun last night, that much was true. Ian showed up wearing a navy blue shirt that made his hair somehow more red and his eyes just a little more green. He was smiling a lot throughout the night, something Mickey wasn't used to, and it made him wonder what had caused the reaction. Mickey was his old self, his hair slicked back, a cigarette dangling from his mouth practically the entire time, and a cocky grin on his face. They had burgers and beers and pie and they talked about their past and it was fun and easy until they somehow found themselves on uncharted territory, fueled by the alcohol in their systems and the intensity of the connection they shared.

Actually, when he thinks back of it, it might have been the song playing on the radio that had caused the sudden shift in atmosphere.

 

 

_'There is goodness in the heart of every broken man who comes right up to the edge of losing everything he has' it sang, it echoed, and Mickey saw Ian swallow, suddenly quiet. He observed the look on Ian's eyes change, focusing on something Mickey couldn't pinpoint, as if it wasn't visible to anyone else but Ian, as if it was somewhere inside of him._

_'We were young enough to sign along the dotted line' another verse sang, but Ian didn't react._

_'Now we're young enough to try to build a better life.' Mickey watched Ian's expression turn from blank to pained in a heartbeat. Only a second later, Ian coughed and repositioned himself on the chair, moving his hands from the table and letting them fall to his sides. "Sorry, I-"_

_"I know."_

_"Of course you do." Ian chuckled, letting his body relax again.  "Bet you don't know what I'm gonna do next, though." he added smugly._

_"My bet is kiss me or punch me in the face."_

_"Neither. I'm gonna leave so you can spend the rest of your night wondering what that means."_

_"That really how you think I spend my days?"_

_"Pretty much. Bragging about the stuff you can figure out and trying to figure out those you can't."_

_"Actually, that's pretty accurate." Mickey chuckled in surprise and they laughed together._

_"Don't go." Mickey pleaded when laughter stopped, his voice almost a whisper, uncertain of why he said what he did and why he wasn't taking it back, almost startled by his own words._

_"Okay." Ian smiled and he looked like the man Mickey could feel was somewhere inside: confident, carefree, happy to be alive. Every sign of his earlier distress was now long forgotten._

_"Tell me something I don't know." were the next words to leave Mickey's mouth. "Something interesting."_

_"Okay." Ian cleared his throat, words caught inside of him, trapped. He gave it his best shot and the words came out, satisfyingly coherent. "I thought I was gonna be bipolar, like my mom. That's why I didn't wanna go to Iraq before I was old enough to be sure I-" He couldn't finish the sentence. He coughed carefully again more and sat straight in his chair: a soldier. Mickey was looking directly at his eyes, trying to read what was masked under that army facade._

_"You really went for it, huh?" Ian laughed at the remark. "How can I possibly compete with that?" Mickey's eyebrows rose as he thought about his next statement._

_"Today, Mickey." He heard Ian say jokingly when Mickey failed to breach the silence between them._

_"How will you know I'm not lying?"_

_"Because", Ian said smugly, "the game isn't fun unless you participate. And you love fun."_

_Well, that was surprisingly convincing. A smile tugged at the left end of his lips and he said: "I have never loved anyone." The thought was clear in his head, a clear and final thought that had been waiting ages to be said out loud. And now he said it. To Ian. As if he was the only man on Earth, the only man alive, that could understand. As if he was the only man who wouldn't run away. And he didn't._

_"Well, you definitely took that challenge seriously." Ian lauged a little, unbothered and amused. „What have you felt?“ he asked tentatively, as if the world was being shut down and he cared about none of it, he just wanted to sit there and listen to Mickey talk._

_"Rage. Pity. Sympathy, I guess. Adrenaline induced happiness. Affection of sorts. Excitement. Restlessness."_

_"Sadness?"_

_The man shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. Describe it."_

_"It's a complex emotion." Ian said, but Mickey just kept staring at him, waiting. "Okay, I can try, I guess." he paused. "Sadness is like a big hole inside of you, always there, no matter what you do. You can fill it temporarily, you can heal, but it's always there, waiting to consume you, whispering, echoing inside of you. It latches onto you, taking your energy, taking your love for life."_

_"Huh." Mickey just said, raising his eyebrows, lost deep in thought. "So you can't get rid of it. Doesn't mean you should stop trying."_

_"I wasn't talking about me." Ian tried, but Mickey shook his head._

_"No lying, Ian Gallagher. It isn't fun, remember?"_

_"Yeah, okay." Ian cleared his throat again. "So, you didn't feel it, then? Sadness?"_

_"Ian." Mickey smiled a little, almost affectionately. "What you described is how I've felt for as long as I can remember."  He swallowed. He breathed. He licked his lips a little. Ian said nothing, he just kept his eyes on Mickey, steady, unwavering, as if he was trying to convey something unsayable, and Mickey looked back at him, trying to piece the puzzle together. What was it? Interest, curiousity? It could easily be both. But, then again, it looked like more. It looked like so  much more and Mickey tried to figure it out, but remained clueless._

_"You're amazing, you know that?" Ian was smiling. It wasn't a happy smile. It looked more like affection. No. No. It was more intense, it was affection, but a precise kind of affection, it was strong, it was electric. It was want. He wanted him._

_"Your body language is painfully easy to read." He stated, expecting embarrassment from the man across from him. But it never came. Ian kept smiling, he kept wanting him. Something tickled at the back of Mickey's spine, a little, unfamiliar sensation. He ignored it, but it was there, reminding him, scaring him._

_"I should hope so." was all the reply that came and Mickey felt just a little dumbfounded at how beautifully direct and unashamed Ian was. "But, then, so is yours." Ian added and Mickey's eyes widened._

_"What?"_

_"Drop the act, Mickey Milkovich. I prefer you blunt and brutal."_

_Mickey chuckled at the statement. "Okay, then, bluntly put, I want us to get out of here and take a walk so you can have an excuse to kiss me, as you have been planning for the last two hours. Then I want to pretend I'm surprised, but kiss you back anyway, a little too eagerly. Then, when you're breathless, I want you to back off just like they always do in every love scene in every film ever produced, apologizing for getting carried away and leaving me to struggle with my newly discovered emotional attachment for you."_

_Ian laughed and took his jacket in his hand. "I think we could play that scene out."_

_So they did._

How did that turn into a date, anyway? They were on the crime scene, discussing the murder weapon, reconstructing the murder together, Ian's arms closing around his neck, holding him, his green eyes on Mickey's blue ones, leaving him breathless in more ways than one. The murder weapon were hands, strong hands, pressing on the man's airway, causing him to suffocate. There were bruises on the man's neck and there were now bruises on Mickey's as well and Ian kept apologizing, but what was he apologizing for? He did it right, he helped. They solved it. Ian solved it. But he wasn't listening, his eyes were pressed on Mickey's neck and his fingers moved to touch the slowly bruising skin. He kept apologizing and dinner was the most obvious way to make him feel less guilty, so Mickey suggested it. His fingers were still on Mickey's neck, cold and tender, unlike the first time, and his eyes shot up to Mickey's when the words reached his concious mind. He smiled brightly. Why did he smile so brightly? It was just a dinner invitation to some crappy diner across from the crime scene where Mickey liked to eat because the food was cheap and a waitress, Brenda, who worked there for as long as he could remember, would always give him an extra piece of pie because he saved her son from a gang-related incident ten years ago. The son, Ben, was thirteen at the time. Mickey remembered when he was thirteen, causing trouble everywhere he went, with his big brain and even bigger mouth to match it. Oh, was he supposed to act humble about being smart as fuck? Maybe if he had been less smart, that would have been acceptable. But Mickey Milkovich, a genious in the making, had no reason not to acknowledge his—abilities, and so he did, and so people hated him. He couldn't care less, really, it was all just a funny little social rollercoaster: the wheel turns at the expense of everyone who's ever lived, and by the age of fourteen, Mickey was the cool guy who knew everything and everyone knew better than to mess with him. Anyway, the boy, the Ben, was struggling with similar issues. He was less smart, naturally, but in other aspects different. A black, poor South side kid with the affinity for theater was just—well, it was hard and the pressure to fit in grew stronger with puberty, and, well, Mickey felt sorry. Luckily enough, his cousins were establlished members of the gang. But, no one had to knew that, did they? Anyway, the kid was off to college now, art scholarship of some sorts, and Brenda felt in debt to Mickey so she gave him pie and let him smoke inside of the diner, causing disapproving looks in his direction, which she by now probably knew he took great pleasure in. So they went to the diner, Ian and he, they had burgers and beer and pie, lots of pie, and Mickey smoked and they talked and they flirted and they kissed. And it was fun. It really was. He got to see a whole new side of Ian: the relaxed, confident, living-in-the-moment one. Ian was playful and he opened up, even, letting Mickey know he was comfortable with him, he trusted him. And when they kissed—

 

_Cold, soft lips settled on his. The breaths he drew weren't frozen anymore, they were warmed by the lungs of the man who was breathing them into him, and they passed over to his mouth willingly. There were hands on him, holding him in place, moving lightly over his sides, before settling on his neck, cold as ice. His own hands were still throughout the kiss, making no move to frighen the man, to hold him down: afraid of being touched. The kiss continued and the hands were moving from his neck, along his sides, to his own, still hands. His hands were taken by hands, his fingers frozen, and placed on the man's hips. They rested there, always conscious of Ian's reaction, always ready to let go. The kiss was long, exploring, tense. Revealing. When it ended, when cold, soft lips parted from his, when the breaths he drew turned freezing again, when there were no longer hands on him to be felt, he opened his eyes. Green was all he saw, green captured him, green held him breathless, green was smiling at him. He smiled back._

_"Sorry, I got a little carried away there." Lips spoke the agreed-upon words. Then the lips were gone, replaced by red, shiny hair at the back of Ian's skull. He was becoming smaller in Mickey's eyes as he walked off smugly. It was rehearsed, staged, fake, deliberately cheesy. It was beautiful._

 

There was a spark inside of him, that was probably the only adequate term. A spark. It was new. He'd been on dates before, none of them successful. They either ended up with Mickey insulting the dates (the usual: too stupid, too boring, too predictable) or they managed to get through a dinner together, but never heard from each other again. Some of them even tried texting him, but Mickey ignored them. Too much work. Tedious. But last night wasn't tedious. Ian was, in a word, a revelation. He was layered; fun, but burdened; he loved life, but hated it. He was a contradiction. He didn't feel the urge to share his whole life story, which Mickey was thankful for, but he let little glimpses of the person who he really is, and who he really was, reveal themselves to Mickey throughout the night. It was natural, like they clicked somehow, if one believed in that sort of thing. Fuck knows Mickey didn't. It was all basic chemistry. Hormones and whatnot, he knew all about it. Everyone did. But it still felt strange, as strange as feelings get (and they get pretty damn strange sometimes): his hormones took thirty years to react to someone like that. What did that mean? And why now? Why him? The physical attraction had been so vivid, so visceral, so palpable: that never happened. The connection was there, too, emotional or whatever they call it, they got each other. Sense of humor, sense of pain. The urge to live and die entertwined. The urge to feel something all the time, anything. And they were feeling. Mickey could tell. The spark was mutual. But as much as they had in common, as fun as it was, could he really be so selfish, could he really let go, knowing, being certain, it wasn't meant to last? One day, sooner or later, Mickey is going to wake up and hate him. He'll run all over town to get away from him. He'll crawl back to him to prove himself wrong. He won't be able to. He'll run again. Ian will become a victim of his fuck-ups, of his inability to stay, to love, to care. Could he be selfish enough to do that? Could he be strong enough not to?

His phone vibrated.

_You're up late_

_Or early_

_Night owl?_

_Vampire_

Chicago was never a city of stars. Regardless, Mickey looked up. The sky was of a bright, morning grey. High above was Venus, The Morning Star. Maybe life really was a romantic drama, after all? He shook his head. Don't be ridiculous, Mikhailo. The only genre your life could be encaptured in was a thriller. And a bad one, at that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope my ironic subtext came across so this didn't look cheesy. 
> 
> Thank you so much for the comments! It's a privilege to recieve any kind of feedback. Feel free to find me on twitter: @knewyoudcome 
> 
> If the texts at the end seem weird to you, it's a Sherlock reference. I love intertext.


	5. Chemical defect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neither Mickey nor Ian expected things to get this... progressive.

_February 13th_

 

_City of stars. Are you shining just for me?_

It echoed. Ian blinked.

_City of stars. There's so much that I can't see._

_Who knows is this the start of something wonderful and new? Or one more dream that I cannot make true?_

The movie was charming, touching, beautiful. Mickey would have hated it. He wasn't sure he liked it, either. But it was a stunning piece of cinematography and Ryan Gosling was hot. He reminded him a little of Mickey, overconfident and careless. God, why did everything remind him of Mickey? It was one date. One fucking date. _Chill the fuck out, Ian. You need to let it go_. Clinging onto something so unstable, so fragile had to be unhealthy. It had to. But he was just overwhelmed with relief. He could still feel, he could still be excited and he could still find a way to make life worth living. Maybe this Mickey thing was nothing, maybe it was just there to remind him, to help him crawl out of his shell. Maybe. But there was nothing wrong with that. Having fun, daydreaming about a guy he went to dinner with, whom he talked to effortlessly, whom he kissed and who kissed him back tenderly: there was nothing wrong with thinking about that. It was a much, much more pleasant alternative, thinking about kissing. There was no blood in kissing, no screams. Well, there could be screams, but that was beside the point. Those screams wouldn't have been quite as—traumatic, sickening, violent. They would have been a welcomed reaction, a very promising one, at that. But there were no screams yet, _god, Ian, shut up and chill out. Chill._ There could be screams soon, though. Maybe when there's another case and they—Maybe they'll— _Stop. Stop this._

"Thanks for going to see the movie with me. God knows Neil would have driven me crazy." Debbie. It was nice to see her. Four years it's been, she hasn't changed. She's aged a little, her hair was longer and wilder and somehow more red than he remembered, and she was still the same talkative, energetic, curious girl he always admired— _no, not a girl, a woman, a woman now_. It hasn't been easy for her, but we all made some bad choices. She was a good mother to Frannie, she tried, she did her best. She was missing out, sure, choosing the life she chose, you were bound to miss out on a few things. Like watching Hollywood musicles with the man you loved. So Ian had jumped in, filling in for the position of pleasant companionship. He could still be pleasant, he could. He was trying.

"No problem. I expected it to be way worse than that." Debbie smiled at that. She was glad. She was happy to spend time with him. It was surprisingly easy and quite unexpectedly so.

"Yeah, it was really good. It's getting some Oscars, that's for sure."

"Yeah? You follow that kind of stuff now?"

"I guess so. I always thought-" She paused. Remorse. That looked like remorse in her eyes, he thought. He'd seen it in the mirror. "I always thought I could have a future. As an actress, I mean." Remorse: lasting just a second, but there for the world to see. Did Neil know? Did anyone know? Did Debbie herself know? She must have. Maybe she was trying to shove it down somewhere, all the plans and missed opportunities, all she could have been. She had to let it go or she would have resented Frannie for it. And herself, she'd resent herself for as long as she lived.

"I think so, too. You should try."

"Try?"

"Yeah, you're still young. You could try auditioning for some plays or something, see how you do."

"You think so?" There was a spark in her eyes: hope. It was hope. She needed someone, she needed _him_ to  believe in her, to support her: just this once.

"Yeah, I really do." He smiled at her. She hugged him. They walked.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"So, Ian, how have you been?" The words he dreaded, spoken aloud. He knew they were coming, he could feel them in his gut hours before he got there. The office was cosy, neutral, designed to calm you and keep you at a distance at the same time. If it wasn't military prescribed, he wouldn't be here. He knew it, she knew it, the universe knew it. But he had little choice in this so there he was, on a sofa, his mind racing, trying to answer the question. He didn't know the answer, he didn't, he would have told her if he did. He was trying to get a grip on things, that's how he's been. But her next question would be 'how has that been working out for you' and he'd punch her in the face. He wouldn't, of course he wouldn't, he'd just take the lavender painting off the wall and smash her head with it _. No. No._ He wouldn't do that, either. Would he? _No_. He didn't know what he would do and he wasn't about to find out.

"Better, I think." There was hope in his reply, who was he trying to convince? Her or himself?

"Okay, that's good. How's the shoulder?"

"Still sore, but the treatment seems to be working."  _A lie._

"Good to hear." She was scribbling something in her notepad, what was it? A liar? Cheat? Delusional? If she paid any attention, she would have seen. Mickey saw. Mickey knew. Mickey knew everything. Mickey was a better therapist than she could ever be and the only degree he had was a second-degree murder charge. He lauged out loud.

"Something funny?" Her eyes darted from her notepad to Ian.

"No, I just thought of something. Nevermind."

"Okay." She sat up straight now. "Tell me about your days."   _Oh, no. Not my days._

"Nothing to say, really. I help my sister around the house and go to physical therapy. Taking it slow. Resting, taking my pills. It's pretty boring. I went to the movies with my sister yesterday, that was nice." He said. She nodded approvingly.

"Good, socialising is good. Made any friends?"

„No- well, there is this guy, not a friend, really, we went on one date.“

She looked surprised. _Didn't see that one coming, did you? What, was I too damaged to go on dates now? Too vulnerable?_

"Tell me about it."

"Well, we went to dinner, it was fun." He paused. "We kissed. He is kind of- different. Not really a relationship type, I think, so that's a relief. Doesn't have the need to text me constantly, but when he does, it's witty and sarcastic and it makes me laugh. It's all a little unconventional, the date was a week ago and we haven't seen each other since, but I don't mind. I'm working on my issues and he's got his own, we're grown ups, but it's really fun, you know? It makes me forget." He felt himself smile through the words. The smile faltered when the last sentence left his lips.

She was scribbling again. _Fucking notepad. Stop that and listen to me for a second, will you?_ She looked up. She smiled. "That's great, you're doing better than I thought."

Was he? He couldn't tell.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He knocked. No answer.

He knocked again. The door flew open. There he was. Shirtless. Why was he shirtless? His hair was wet. Oh. He was showering. Ian smiled unwillingly.

"You bring the pie?" He reached for the box in Ian's hands. Of course he brought the pie, he wouldn't be allowed in without that fucking pie. Mickey walked over to the table and dropped the pie. Ian stood on his treshold for a second before he realised he was probably allowed to come inside. He shut the door behind him and watched Mickey fall into his chair. Shirtless. Still shirtless. Not even bothering to go look for a shirt. Just lying there. Shirtless. Ian enhaled and Mickey looked at him. Was it loud, his breathing? Was he embarrassing himself? He sat on the sofa, trying to appear casual. He could do that, he did it on their date, he did it on all his dates: it was a game and he always had the upper hand. With Mickey, though, it seemed neither was winning. It looked like a tie. Like they were both struggling, the name of the game hanging by a string. They were both interested, that much was clear, but they were also both careful. Tonight, though, he felt his mask decompose already. He glanced over at Mickey: distracted. He wasn't eating the pie, why wasn't he eating the pie? He was staring blankly somewhere, god knows where. Quiet. Still. They were probably both in over their depth.

"I need to conduct an experiment." Mickey suddenly stated.

"Okay, what kind of an experiment?"

Mickey looked unsure. "A chemical one."

"Okay, care to elaborate?"

"Get up."

Confused, he obeyed. His hands were in his pockets. He lifted an eyebrow, waiting for further instructions. The words never came. What did come were Mickey's hands, and Mickey's lips and Mickey's body heat, and Mickey's smell, the smell of whisky and trees, _why did he smell like trees?_ A tounge was on his, circling slowly in his mouth. The next minute, it was on his neck, making its path towards his chest, and hands were tugging at his shirt. Ian felt himself swallow, doing his best to stay as calm as possible. If this was some kind of experiment, he wasn't about to give Mickey the satisfaction- But a tounge was on his earlobe, mouth slowly sucking. There was a soud stuck in his troat and he felt himself shudder under Mickey's hands. Suddenly, everything was gone. The hands and the tounge and the heat: all gone. He opened his eyes disapprovingly, as if a movement of his eyelids could convey such a message, and Mickey was staring at him, blinking.

"You okay?" Ian spoke, but the words came out soft, too soft. Mickey failed to notice. He failed to reply, as well. He failed to react at all. Ian took his face in his hands gently. "Hey, hey. What's wrong?" Too soft. The softest he ever sounded. Mickey looked him in the eyes, acknowledging the gesture. Ian let go.

"This never happens." Mickey looked away, still blinking rapidly.

"What? What happened?"  _OH. Oh_. "Oh. You're not- you don't wanna do this." He was the one blinking now, Mickey still looking sideways. He cleared his throat. _Unaffected, that was the game. Unaffected._  "It's okay, really. Don't worry about it. We can still just hang out, right"“ Ian smiled. _Unaffected. This isn't affecting you at all. It was one date. Chill the fuck out._

Mickey looked restless. He laughed a little. "You are not that stupid, Ian." Should he have been insulted by that? Probably. But it was also a compliment of sorts, wasn't it? It must be Mickey's way – ambigous, unclear, leaving you to interpret it freely. _But what did he mean by that?_

"Huh?"

"Stop looking like a lost puppy. We're moving onto the second stage of the experiment."

 _Interesting. This was getting interesting_. "And what would that be?"

"You. In control."

Ian made no move to acknowledge the instructions. Mickey raised his eyebrows questioningly. Ian still did nothing, said nothing, made no attempt to communicate. Mickey waited. Ian was making him wait.

"Clothes off. All of them." He said after a while, settling back into the sofa. He saw Mickey's smile tingle at the end of his lips. He obeyed. It was a slow motion, deliberately so, Ian judged. It was Mickey's way of teasing, he knew this game. He played it before, he must have. But why did he call this an experiment, then? _Oh. OH. Interesting. This didn't happen,_ that was what he said _. You're not that stupid, Ian:_ that was what he said _._ A man so used to control, clinging onto it his whole life, now eager to let go. Curious _? It didn't happen,_ those were the words he used _. You're not that stupid, Ian._ Wasn't he? Maybe he wasn't. It wasn't just curiosity, clearly, no. Okay, yes, it was definitely curiosity, but he thought about this, took time to decide, he planned this. It was on his mind, a distraction. He had felt it on their date, then, the urge to let go. Ian could do that. He could make him let go. He could enjoy it, relishing the fact he got to be the first to have this effect on Mickey. ( _How was that possible?_ ) He breathed.

"Now watch." He unbottoned the top button of his shirt and Mickey's eyes shot to the newly revealed skin on his chest. Another button was down. And another. Some time later, his shirt was open, revealing his lean, muscular body. "You liked that." His eyes darted to Mickey's erection. "You like teasing." Mickey swallowed.  Ian removed the shirt from his body and got on his feet, circling the object of the experiment. His breathing was unsteady, Ian noted. He stopped behind him. He traced his fingers over the man's neck, slowly exploring him, letting his fingertips brush against the man's back and down to his ass, all in one motion, and Mickey shivered. "Cold?" Ian asked and a head shake was all the response he got. "Words."

"No." Barely coherent: noted.

"I gotta tell you, this is the most visceral reaction I ever got without even touching a guy. It's doing miracles for my ego."

Mickey cleared his throat. "Glad I can help." Ian couldn't see his face, but he was definitely smiling. There wasn't a self-concious bone in his body, apparently. He breathed in his ear, finding his earlobe. He touched his face with his hand, it was hot: noted. Shivers became more obvious, more prominent, as Ian traced his hand from Mickey's ass to his thigs, still teasing.

He backed away, his mouth and hands leaving the warm body in front of him. He circled the room and settled back on the sofa. "Touch yourself."

Mickey's eyes shot to Ian's. He looked hesitant. "You need to let go if you want the experiment to work, Mickey. So let go and do what I say." There was certainty in Ian's voice: he was in charge. "Unless you want to stop the experiment." He decided to add, but that was hardly neccessary given the state Mickey was in, his hesitation had nothing to do with consent, it was about a barrier they were breaching, Mickey was breaching in his mind, Ian knew that.

Mickey shook his head. "Words." Ian reminded.

"No. No stopping." There was little coherence, but more than enough resolution in the words. Ian smiled.

"I figured." Ian chuckled. "Now start touching. I know you want to."

Ian watched as Mickey's hand moved from his side to his erection, gripping it loosely. The hand begun moving and Ian was finding it rather difficult to focus. Mickey closed his eyes.

"Look at me." Ian's voice was intense and Mickey's eyes shot open instantly. He bit his bottom lip. Ian undid his belt and pulled at the end of it, tossing it on the floor. His look never strayed from Mickey. He unzipped his jeans slowly. Mickey took a shaky breath. Ian's hand found way into his jeans, tugging lightly, and then into his boxers. Mickey swallowed hard. Ian smirked.

He got up from the sofa and a second later, he was right there, in front of Mickey. This was getting too hard, too tempting. He kissed him and Mickey flinched at the touch. They kept kissing, their bodies touching, their heat spreading everywhere. The breaths they drew were sharp, erratic, their hands were on each other. Mickey's in Ian's hair and Ian's on Mickey's hips. He pushed him lightly. He kept pushing him until Mickey's legs reached exactly where Ian had planned and he tightened the grip on Mickey's hips, lifting him onto the kitchen table where the pie Ian had brought lay forgotten. Mickey moaned at that, he actually moaned, and Ian couldn't help but to smile from pleasure, never breaking the kiss they were immersed in. Mickey's hands moved from his hair and were on his back now, scratching him hard, making Mickey's passion that much more evident. Lost in the moment, Ian decided, lost completely, gone: noted. His teeth moved onto Mickey's neck, biting hard into the flesh and Mickey made what could only be interpreted as the most approving sound Ian ever heard in his life. His lips lingered on his neck, nibbling, sucking: gone. He was as gone as Mickey was. He opened his eyes to look at the man from beneath him: his eyes were closed, there were little drops of sweat on his forehead, his mouth was open just enough to make every sound that came out of it go straight to Ian's cock. His hair was messy, his neck was bruised, but not the way Ian had bruised it on the crime scene that one time; there were teeth marks now, Ian's teeth marks, a blatant display of passion for everyone to witness. Ian bit him again, reveling in the grunts that escaped Mickey's parted lips at the sensation. They were pressed onto each other, moving on instinct, breathing into each other, Mickey's legs parted just enough for Ian to settle between them. It was getting too intense too fast and Ian backed off a little. Mickey's eyes flung open. Ian didn't even have to open his mouth, Mickey knew. Even like this, even this lost, he knew. "Nightstand."

Ian smiled. A moment later, he was back and his lips were back on Mickey's. He dropped the contents from his hands onto the table, taking Mickey by the hips again, drawing him closer, as close as humanly possible. Their heartbeats were pressed to each other and Ian could feel every shiver that ran through Mickey's body.

Not long after, he was inside of him, pulsing inside of him. This feeling, god, this feeling, like the world narrowed to a single sensation, he had no idea how much he had missed it until it was there again, all over him, making him dizzy and breathless. He looked down, Mickey's hands on his cock, his cock in Mickey. He looked up: Mickey now lay straight on his back, becoming a little louder with each thurst. He was just lying there, perfect, perfect. He was perfect and he let go, Ian made him let go, Ian made him feel like this. Ian was the one making him this loud, this lost, this gorgeous. His lips were swollen, his neck was purple, he was gorgeous. Ian leaned forward, his hand on Mickey's neck. Mickey shuddered, opening his eyes.

He looked down at Mickey again: wrecked. He looked wrecked. Beyond words.

Ian tightened his grip on his neck and just a few thursts after, he felt Mickey's whole body twitch as a fluid warmed the skin on his stomach. Not long after, he was there too, definitely there, the pleasure in Mickey's voice tipping him over the edge. He felt dizzy, his knees gave out, his mind clouded. He pulled out and crashed on the floor, not even bothering to try for the sofa. Mickey crashed next to him. They breathed. It felt like ages until they spoke again, regaining control over their voices.

"Experiment concluded." Mickey stated. "Results are as follows: What the fuck just happened?"

Ian laughed and looked at him. He was still a mess, still gorgeous, but he looked confused now,  as if the reality had somehow shifted and he couldn't find his way back.

"You let go. You were amazing."

Mickey frowned. "I'm always amazing, but I feel like I'm missing the point of the compliment right now."

Ian chuckled. "You giving up control was probably the hottest thing I've ever seen in my life."

Mickey looked perplexed. He wasn't getting any of this, was he? So. Fucking. Clueless. "Mickey. Look at me." He did. "That never happens, I get it. I get what you meant. You're used to having control over everything all the time and you applied the same rule in sex so far. So today, when you let go, you experienced something you never have. It's perfectly normal to feel weird, it did take you thirty years to figure it out. I'm afraid I've overestimated your skills of observation." Ian teased, taking a cigarette out of the pocket of Mickey's jeans. Mickey just stared at him, trying to piece his words together.

"Fuck." It lingered in the air like a revelation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely feedback! This chapter is very important to me, as it shows the gradual progress of the characters and their relationship.  
> I wanted to make sexuality an important issue in the fic (psychologically speaking) that helps the characters through the process of (re)affirmation and self-discovery. That being said, I still hope the physical aspect of the act is imaginative enough to make this work well :)
> 
> Also, the film in reference to is La La Land. 
> 
> Feel more than free to reach me any time on twitter @knewyoudcome with your suggestions/comments/complaints!


	6. Clueing for looks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Changing. Getting drunk. Embracing change.
> 
> Trigger warning: Mention of past rape, suicide and violence.

_March_

An unexpected ray of sunshine caressed his face just as he was arriving to the crime scene. Ian was already there, talking to Lisa's partner, what was his name? Gavin? – whatever it was, Mickey cared too little to remember it. It was rather interesting, though, that this wanna-be detective was clearly more into Ian than into doing his job. Mickey smirked at the observation and approached the entrance of the bank. He stopped, lighting a cigarette, letting his face soak in the tender, brisky sun. He walked around the bank, checking for exits, his brain piecing together what looked like a very successful robbery. He smiled. He loved smart criminals. Not because they challenged him, sure, that was fun, but because they had an actual shot in getting away. And bank robbers? Those guys deserved all the awards. It took class, brain, organisation, strategy. It took balls to rob a fucking bank in the middle of the day and get away with it. Mickey could appreciate it. Hell, there were times in his life when he was set on doing exactly that – robbing banks, because what was the crime in that anyway? Taking from someone who was literally manipulating the whole world into playing by their own rules, while enslaving the poor and forcing them to work for the rich only so they could survive in the world dictated by monetary policies? There was no greater tragedy in life, none whatsoever, than the one everyone was unwillingly a part of: financial slavery. It made him sick to his stomach.

He entered the bank nonchalantly. The Gavin (?) guy was still talking to Ian and Mickey could see Ian's whole face light up when his eyes landed on Mickey. Mickey smiled on instinct and shot Gavin (?) a condescending look.

"I'm listening." His words echoed, directed to Detective Jones, and she turned around to meet his eyes.

"Three men, guns, came in at 12.34, out by 12.39. One of th-"

"Don't play dumb with me, Lisa. You know the rules. I don't do anything related to theft. You called me anyway. So, what's the catch? I'm listening."

"No catch, Mickey. It's just- these have been going on for months now.  Four of them in two months, to be precise. And we got nothing on them so I hoped you could-"

"You hoped wrong." Mickey laughed in disbelief. He turned to Ian and shouted. "Ian. Wanna go do something?"

Ian looked at him curiously. "We're done here?"

"All done, yeah." He raised an eyebrow and waited for the redhead to catch on.

After a second, Ian took the gloves off and smiled. "Let's go, then." He nodded at Gavin (?) and Lisa, making his way to the exit. Mickey followed.

"Bye, Gavin." He yelled.

"It's Greg." Came a response. Mickey smirked.

-

"So, where are we going?" Ian asked after they left the bank.

"To celebrate."

Ian chuckled, confused. Mickey grinned, a cigarette already in his mouth. "Celebrate what?" Ian asked, and Mickey looked at him fondly. Three months ago, when they met, Ian was a wreck. A beautiful wreck, but a wreck all the same. His shoulder twitched when he was touched, he was tense, quiet, confused. Dark circles around his eyes only confirmed the obvious, this was a man stuck in his head. Lost, that's what he was. He was lost in a gaping hole that separated his new, civilian life from the life he kept living in his nightmares: it was a smothering discrepancy, preventing him from moving on, from breathing fully, from connecting to his own emotions. Day by day, Mickey watched his shoulder hurt less, his lips smile more, his words flow more smoothly. He watched Ian regain his confidence, become bold and fearless. In life, in work, in bed. Most importantly, in conversations. There was still a long way to go, but Mickey enjoyed the progress. Ian grew more comfortable with himself, with talking about his past, confiding in Mickey about some of it. And Mickey would always search for a way to challenge him, because Ian loved being challenged, he loved taking action, moving forward; and Mickey was there to provide context. He's always been that type of guy, invested until there was something to be invested in. Ian knew this, they talked about it and they chose together not to dwell on it, because if (or, rather, when) Mickey got bored, it is highly probable Ian would as well, and there was nothing wrong with that. All things end, they knew this. They accepted this and lived in the moment. What Mickey didn't know, though, was just how much his involvement with Ian would affect him. All things changed, and it was starting to look like Mickey was changing too. The man who once couldn't stand being around people was now more than happy with spending hours on end with Ian. Fuck, he even slept with the guy. Actually slept in a bed. Together. Their limbs touching. And it wasn't even weird? Even more scary, the sex only kept getting more intense. It wasn't tedious, it wasn't predictable, it was unexpectedly enjoyable. Ian somehow knew all the words to say, all the tender nerve endings to awake: everything he did, starting with just the look in his eyes, set a strong stream of adrenaline in motion in Mickey's body. His compulsive need for control seemed to have dissolved, melted entirely under Ian's touch. He would just let himself go, just like that, forcing his mind into overdrive and thus corrupting it completely under Ian's gaze. The raw intensity of pleasure he once found tedious struck him hard after he'd come. It would then all come crawling back, but this time there would be no Ian's touge or Ian's fingers to distract him, it would be just Mickey and his mind, obliviated. Distraught. Petrified, even. And he would lie there, next to the gorgeous mystery man that somehow made his world break apart with a single sound of sheer, blissful gratification, and he'd contemplate the meaning of all this, but he falied to rationalise it. He should have been worried, he realised, but he wasn't. He was loving it. He should have run from it, probably, but what would be the point of that? If a man is too terrified to enjoy the dangerous, how can he enjoy life, perilous as it often got?

There were nights when Ian would scream and shake and cry and Mickey didn't know what to do. So he'd pick up his guitar and sit in his chair in the living room and he'd play something calming, something peaceful, and he could hear Ian wince when he woke up and relax when he fell back to sleep. Not before Ian was long within the realm of dreams would Mickey climb back into bed and trace a thumb across his torso and his neck, making sure his pulse was steady and his breaths were even. Those nights made Mickey restless and he could never force himself to close his eyes again, as if cursed by a rush of thoughts crawling beneath his skin, keeping him wide awake, begging him to listen. And he would, he would listen to his brain and it scared him because only on those nights did Mickey ever admit to himself that maybe, just maybe Ian wasn't just a random  guy who landed in his bed and happened to know all the right things to say; maybe there was something more to that. Maybe there was something more than kindness when Mickey played the guitar to lull him back to sleep and maybe there was something more than curiosity when Mickey listened Ian talk about his past and his struggles and not being able to stop himself coming up with whatever help he deemed appropriate. Maybe there was even something more to Mickey hating that Craig (?) guy- _no, nope,_ he was just a ridiculous person and his— _feelings_ for Ian had nothing to do with that. Anyhow, tonight wasn't one of those nights.

Not yet, anyway.

Tonight was about Ian.

"Three months home." Mickey widened his eyes and watched realisation sink into Ian's. He smiled.

"You remembered."

"Yeah, don't get cocky. I remember everything."

Ian laughed now. A genuine, easy kind of laugh. Unburdened. Melodical. Real.

"You didn't remember Greg's name." Ian teased.

"He's a dick." Mickey made an annoyed face and Ian laughed.

"True." He said and Mickey felt his shoulders relax. Why were they even tense in the first place? "So, how are we celebrating?" Ian asked and Mickey wawed to stop a cab.

"We're going to a jazz club." Mickey stated as they entered the car.  "But, first things first, pie."

"A jazz club? Didn't know you were into jazz?" Ian asked when the cab started moving towards the said location.

"Yeah, I'm a South side piece of trash who happens to be into jazz. Problem?" He shot Ian a dark look and observed Ian's shoulders tense up at the tone. Ian shook his head.

"You know that's not what I meant, Mickey. I just never took you for a jazz kind of guy." He shrugged casually.

"And all those little compositions that help you sleep are what? Fucking classical music?" He winced at the ignorance. By the time he realised what he had said, the words were already in the air, hovering between them. They never talked about the nightmares. Mickey thought it would be best to let Ian bring it up if he wanted to. Ian never did, so Mickey figured there was no rush to have that conversation. Now, though, what they knew already was acknowledged for the first time, and Mickey's heart beated a little faster while he waited for Ian's response. Pushing people until they reached their limits, that was what he did, what he always did. Why was he all of a sudden so scared of doing it with Ian?

He looked at Ian, the man's eyes turned to look through the window of the car, his teeth biting his cheek, making it appear hollow. The sharp winter sun was descending slowly, leaving a purple sky above them. Mickey breathed. Few seconds passed. Ian cleared his throat.

"Do you-" He started. "Compose them yourself?" He turned to Mickey amicably, surprising him for a second.

"Yeah, I- it helps me think."

"That's cool. I didn't know you did that."  Ian smiled.

"Yeah." Mickey nodded gently.

There was a moment of silence between them before Ian cleared his throat again.

"Thank you. For the playing, I mean. It helps." His eyes were pointed to his feet now, but the look on his face was tender, vulnerable. Mickey could feel the sincerity in his tone. 

"Don't fucking thank me, Ian. You make me sound like a fucking philantrophist."

Ian looked at him, a shy smile on his lips. "I just- it means a lot to me, okay?"

Mickey swallowed. "Yeah, don't get all soft on me now, Gallagher. I'm gonna need you in shape for all the jazz."

"Oh, for all the jazz." Ian grinned. "Right."

 -

By the time they finished their dinner (and all the pie), it was night time. Chicago slept under a veil of darkness, disrupted only by the blurriness of the lamplights. They walked into the club and the beat of cello welcomed them, they could feel it in the air, it made the room buzz with energy.  They sat on a table close to the stage. Mickey had whisky, because there wasn't anything else worth having. Ian decided for beer.

The rhythm kept switching from intense to relaxing; from atmospheric to erratic, improvisations changed course of entire tunes and Mickey smiled through it all, at home with himself. He watched Ian drink his beer, admiring the players on the stage, impressed by the virtuosity of their fingers and their minds. He seemed to be enjoying himself and that made Mickey even more at home with himself.

Fuck, when did he get this soft? And why? And is there a way back, because if this— _when_ this all falls apart, there will be only one way to recover, and that included going back to the place in his mind where he was once confident and secure. Could he really do that?

Mickey rose from his seat when he saw the club manager walk up to them and they shook hands, greeting each other warmly. A moment later, Mickey was on stage and he sat behind a piano, looking at the crowd. Ian was there, his eyes wide and his mouth a little open, a display of shock and anticipation for the world to witness. Mickey said nothing, but his fingers started moving over the keys. Black, white, white, black again. The tune his movements produced was a slow, melancholic one, making his throat dry and his hands a little shaky. It was an undeliberate ode to Ian, whose mouth was still parted when the tune reached its end. Mickey smiled a little when the crowd cheered and he returned to his seat next to Ian, downing his whisky in one gulp.

Ian was looking at him, smiling.

"That was-" Ian shook his head lightly. "Incredible." He paused. "You were amazing."

Mickey shrugged. "I know."

Ian chuckled. "Did you- compose that?"

"Yeah."

"When?"

"Just now."

Ian's mouth fell open again. "Now? How is that even-?" He shook his head. "That's amazing, Mickey."

"Could you think of anther compliment? Amazing is getting kind of old." He smiled and downed another whisky. Ian rolled his eyes and finished his beer.

 -

It was late before they left the club, both of them high on the atmosphere and, a little more so, on the large amount of alcohol in their systems. They walked the streets, bumping into one another, laughing over nothing in particular. They reached Mickey's place and stopped to say goodbye.

"Good night, Mickey." Ian giggled and took him by his jacket, dragging him in for a kiss. It was just a peck, a little reminder of the times they shared. The alcohol almost had Mickey tripping over Ian and taking them both on the floor, but they managed to avoid that situation, however gracelessly.

"Just crash here tonight." Mickey offered. Ian gasped, feigning insult.

"Mickey Milkovich! Is that what you think of me? That I would just fall into your bed because you played me a song?"

Mickey laughed at the mockery. "Christ, you get so melodramatic when you're drunk."

They entered the flat unceremoniously, both of them trying and failing to unlock the door repeatedly. They crashed onto Mickey's sofa, speechless, staring at the black TV screen.

"You wanna play Cluedo?" Mickey blurted out, raising his hands.

"Cluedo?" Ian laughed. "Clue-doe." He faked British accent.

Mickey laughed too, his hands still in the air. "You wanna? Play? Cluedo? Huh?"

"Play we shall!" Ian exclaimed,rising from the sofa in a swift movement. He turned around the living room, his fingers going over the furniture lightly.

Mickey gaped at him. "What- whatcha doing?"

"Clueing." Ian looked at him a-matter-of-factly. Mickey frowned. What was he on about?

 "Ohhhhhhhhhh!" Mickey raised a finger apprehensively. "Cluedo. Yes." He frowned again. He stood from the sofa and recovered a cardboard box from a drawer. "Cluedo!" He exclaimed, offering the box to Ian. Ian took it, slowly examining it, and shook it in the air. It rattled. Ian grinned enthusiastically.

They sat on the floor and played. They tried to, at least.

"Oh, I got an idea!" Mickey yelled dramatically.

"Does it involve marshmallows?" Ian raised a curious eyebrow.

"What? No. Well, maybe, I don't know." A confused Mickey spoke. "But, like, let's bet on it."

"On marshmallows?" Ian looked thrilled with the idea. Mickey broke into laughter.

He shook his head. "On Cluedo." He raised his eyebrows.

Ian frowned. "What's the bet?"

"I win, I get to ask you whatever I want. One question. You win, you get to do the same. And we gotta reply honestly." Mickey explained slowly and Ian took his time to go over the words in his head. The alcohol made Mickey's proposition far less simple to understand.

"Yes. YES! A wonderful idea." Ian started nodding, but the dizziness made him less determined than he would have liked.

They played for a while, doing their best to focus. The effect of the alcohol wore off a little, but just a little, not enough for the two of them to really notice.

"It's the twins!" Ian exclaimed victoriously.

"It's never twins." Mickey yelled and Ian looked at him, angry, his mouth pierced together.

"It's the twins, Mickey, I win." He was yelling too. Mickey was distressed.

"No, it's the- the- the cleaning lady." He stuttered, pointing at the victim.

"She's the victim, Mickey." Ian stared at him in disbelief, his mouth gaping open.

"Yes." Mickey whispered dramatically. "Oh, she was clever." He laughed animatedly. He gestured at the game on the floor and shot it a condescending look. "She's cleverer than you lot and she's dead."

Ian watched him for a second, waiting for Mickey to return to reality. "It was the twins, look, it says so right here." He pointed to a paper sheet, a look of mischief on his face. Mickey looked up and snatched the sheet from Ian's hands. "I win."

"Yeah, well, common sense says it was the cleaning lady, so I win." He grinned, tossing the paper on the other side of the room.

"Agree to disagree." Ian stated resigningly. Mickey nodded in acceptance. "But what about the bet, then?" Ian looked at him.

Mickey frowned. The bet. He forgot about the bet. "Ohhhhh. The bet!" His eyes flew open. "Yeah, let's do that."

"Mhm. Okay." Ian lay on the floor, thinking. Mickey joined him, too dizzy to go up to the sofa. They lay in silence for a while and Mickey struggled to stay awake. Suddenly, Ian spoke. "Why did you kill your dad?"

Mickey stared at the ceiling, awoken abruptly by the question. "Raped my sister. She killed herself so I shot him in the face in the middle of the Alibi." He stated calmly.

"Alibi?"

"The bar he always drank at."

Ian laughed. Mickey turned his head to look at him. He was just lying there, laughing. There was no shock in his expression, no horror. He was laughing. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. It's just- that's so ironic."

"What is?" Mickey's head was still turned to Ian and Ian shifted, moving to lay on his side, his face facing Mickey's, his hands tugged beneath his head.

"Alibi." He whispered.

Mickey caught on and laughed.  The next moment, Ian's face stiffened suddenly. Mickey observed the caution behind the mask.

"Why? Why in front of everyone?"

They were looking at each other, both expressionless. Mickey sighed. "Guilt." It was a single word, just a word, but it stung deeply. It stung so deep Mickey could swear Ian could feel it, too; and he saw his shoulder twitch at the admission. Of course he felt it, of course he knew, Ian somehow always knew everything when it came to Mickey. It was as if for the first time in his life, Mickey was the open book someone could read with ease, and he was left blind when he tried to read back. A moment later, he felt Ian's gentle fingers brush his cheek and he closed his eyes, swallowing the lump in his throat. Ian's fingers stayed there, fondling. There was time for a few unsteady breaths until Ian spoke again.

"You can ask a question, too." Mickey opened his eyes, but remained silent.

They breathed.

"Are we-" He paused, searching for the word. "Together?"

He watched Ian's lips curl into a soft smile. "Do you want to be together?" The words were barely audible, but certain. A question, a struggle brought alight.

"I don't know." Mickey said and Ian's fingers retreated from his cheek. He felt almost hollow without the touch but before he could protest, Ian's fingers were tracing his bottom lip affectionately. "Do _you_?" The question was soft on his lips. Ian's gaze shifted from his lips to his eyes.

"I don't know." It was slow, uncertain, frightful. "I think, maybe, I do."

Mickey swallowed hard when the words reached him and realised Ian's fingers were now gone from him completely. He sighed, thoughtful. Ian closed his eyes. All fell silent in the room but their breathing.

"I think, maybe, I do, too." Mickey whispered. Ian's steady breaths were uninterrupted. Mickey's eyes fluttered closed. They slept.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your support and patience! Any feedback is welcome, here or on my twitter @knewyoudcome.
> 
> Special thanks to my Inigo, the person I'm in great debt to as a writer and as a human being. I hope you do realise how much our conversations mean to me. I love you.
> 
> Also, I'm sorry for all the Sherlock references, I'm starting to get really embarrassed by the amount of them. I'll be trying to cut back in the future :)


	7. Pressure point - part one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I have this terrible feeling from time to time that we might all just be human." W.S.S.Holmes, The Lying Detective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mention of drug abuse.

_Morning after_

 

His back was stiff and his neck hurt. He opened his eyes. The darkness was unveiled by greyish daylight and soft raindrops made the otherwise quiet apartment buzz with light-tipped vibration. He blinked, trying to melt the haze he was in. He blinked again, harder, helpless. Then it dawned on him. This wasn't morning haze, this was a hangover. They went to a jazz club and Mickey had played for him, just for him, and they went home and played some silly cardboard game and he won and they—

They were on the floor.

Mickey was motionless next to him, his breathing was even. Ian turned to look at him.

His eyes were closed and his mouth was slightly parted. His usually neat hair was messy on his forehead and Ian reached out and brushed it with his fingers. Mickey's nose frowned at the touch, but his breaths remained unchanged. Ian smiled at the sight and lay on his back again, his eyes on the ceiling. The rain grew heavier on the window glass. How did they get here?

Just three months ago, Ian was caught amidst two worlds, both tearing him apart, both forcing him to change, both smothering him. Three months ago he wasn't even sure if he'd see rain again, and now it was lulling him into contemplation. Three months ago he wasn't sure he'd ever feel anything for another person again, because the price was too high and the reward was usually insufficient to make up for it, but here he was, on another man's floor, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember what he had said when Mickey asked—

But Mickey didn't want that, they had that conversation ages ago. No relationship drama, both agreed. Ian tried to grasp when his decision not to get involved turned to ashes in his mind. Was it last night, after he had had enough to drink and put his guard down? Or was it after one of the cases, when he'd look at Mickey, trying and failing miserably to hide his amazement? Or was it when they first had sex, when he stared down at Mickey's flushed cheeks for the first time, at lips mouthing his name soundlessly? Or was it the very first time they met, when Mickey had somehow known everything about him from a single look and left him speechless in the face of his own uncertainty? He had no idea when it happened, no clue at all, but he was now completely aware the wheels of his emotion were set in motion and there was no return. What did he answer?

A slight panic arose in his chest at the memory of last night. The boundaries had been clear enough, yet he overstepped them. Did Mickey mind? Was he going to wake up to remember it and make them have an awkward conversation, explaining to Ian that he was Mickey Milkovich and he was a sociopath and relationships just weren't his area—

But, why did he ask? If Mickey didn't want to overstep the boundaries, why did he ask? Why did he ask if they were together?

Ian frowned. Mickey claimed to be transparent, but was everything really as straightforward as he wanted Ian to believe it was? _Yes. Yes, of course it was, Ian, you dumb fuck. Chill, you're reading too much into this. He was probably just testing you, knowing him. Just pushing your buttons. And you—_

"You okay?" He flinched at the sudden disruption. He looked at Mickey, his eyes still closed, but his head tipped a little towards Ian, indicating awareness.

"Yeah." Ian answered quietly and Mickey opened his eyes to observe him.

"Talk to me." Ian heard the words, but registered only the way they lay on Mickey's lips, gentle, supportive.

"Just hungover." Mickey smiled at the reply and rose to his feet abruptly. He walked over to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Ian watched, confused. Mickey's words came  from behind closed doors, muffled. "Make some eggs. I'm showering."

So he did.

They ate in silence, both too tired to form sentences. Nothing a cup of strong coffee couldn't fix. So they drank.

"I, um- had fun last night." Ian decided it deserved some recognition.

"Yeah, it was-" Mickey paused, taking a sip of coffee. "I'm not sure I remember anything after we got here."

Ian nodded and took a relieved breath. Mickey gave him a small, reserved smile. "Do you?" The question was tentative, exploring, and Ian shrugged his shoulders casually.

"We played Cluedo, I think." He glanced at the floor towards the box and Mickey followed the gaze, raising his eyebrows.

"Huh." He scratched his top lip with his thumb. "I probably won." He grinned at Ian and shrugged again. "Probably." Ian smiled. There was a moment of silence when Mickey's eyes narrowed, staring curiously at Ian. Ian looked down to his empty plate, quiet. He was far beyond wondering what it was he answered at Mickey's question last night. He knew what he had said. He knew it because it had been all he thought about for weeks. Since Mickey first snuggled against him in his sleep, since Mickey kept texting him about a case that one time Ian was at a physical therapy appointment and couldn't go to the crime scene, since last night when Mickey got on that stage and let Ian discover another part of him, a part Ian knew was displayed for his ears only in every note of Mickey's piano composition. He knew what he had said because he wanted to say it, no matter how drunk he might have been. He knew what he had said because there was no hiding it from himself. Suddenly, a newfound confidence arose inside of him and he looked at Mickey resolutely.

"Actually, I won." He stated calmly.

"Oh, really?" Mickey grinned.

"Yes, really." He rolled his eyes. "You decided the victim was the culprit."

Mickey frowned and laughed whole-heartedly. "Then it must have been the victim." He winked. _Why did he wink?_

"What? No! It was the twins." Ian yelled in frustration, reliving last night's events.

"Ian, it's never twins." He shook his head in disappointment.

Ian's mouth fell open. "You remember, you dick."

"Remember what?" He raised an eyebrow, a smirk rounding his features.

Ian chuckled, unresponsive. Of course he knew. Leave it to Mickey Milkovich to get shitfaced and still remember every fucking thing that happened. He sighed. Why was he so nervous? Mickey was looking at him, smiling stupidly.

"What?" Ian asked and he watched Mickey's mouth open to articulate something, but whatever it was, it was interrupted by a nervous, hard knock on the door.

"Who the fuck?" Mickey yelled and stormed to open the door. A brunette walked in, soaked from head to toe by rain, early thirties, dark circles under her eyes. She was wearing old jeans and a sweater beneath her oversized coat. Her make-up was smudged and she was trembling slightly, indicating that she was scared (or just cold? He couldn't tell, but he bet Mickey could). He decided to go with scared, possibly traumatised. Her knocking had been intense, desperate even, so something probably happened, something she still needed help with: something fixable?

Fuck, when did he start this deducing thing? This was getting weird.

He glanced over at Mickey, monitoring his confused expression when he saw the woman behind the door. "Joan?" An ex girlfriend, maybe? But Mickey didn't really date, women or men.

The woman stormed in, choking her tears. "Iggy's gone. He's missing. I tried to call him but his phone is out of service, I called all his friends, went down to the Alibi, I tried the hospitals and the jails and even the fucking morgue but he's gone, I can't find him anywhere. All his things are at home, he couldn't have left-“ Oh, Iggy's wife. Okay. She was pacing all around the apartment in a frenzy, tears spilling from her eyes. Mickey walked over to her, taking her shoulders in his hands and shaking her.

"Joan. Joan. We'll find him. I'll find him. You gotta calm down, now, okay? We're gonna call the cops and-"

"No, no, no cops, please." She cried. "You know he's- he's- he's probably in some kind of trouble. Bringing cops into it is only gonna make it worse for him." She paused, wiping her tears with the sleeve of her coat. "Please, I can't lose him, he can't go to jail, the kids-" At the mention of kids, her tears started spilling again, forcing her to shut her eyes. Ian observed on his feet, unsure of what he was supposed to do.

Mickey then stormed over to the bathroom and brought a towel for the woman to dry her face and hair in. He handed it over to her. "Joan. Chill. I'll find him." He maneuvered her to the sofa and sat her down, crouching in front of her. "Stop crying. Dry yourself a little, I'm gonna make you some coffee and then we'll talk, okay?" She nodded and Mickey stood up and walked over to the kitchen.

Ian was still on his feet, uncertain. He glanced over to the woman on the sofa, but her face was buried in the towel and Ian followed Mickey to the kitchen as quietly as possible, trying not to remind her of his presence.

"Mickey, what's happening?" He whispered. Mickey was pouring coffee into a mug and looked at him nervously. Ian leaned towards him, taking his face in his hands in an impulse of intimacy. "Talk to me."

Mickey's eyes stirred in his eyelids before focusing on Ian again. "Drugs. He does drugs. God knows where he is." He moved to go back to the living room, but Ian took his wrist gently. He turned around to face him again.

"Let me help." He pleaded and Mickey nodded.

-

When they calmed Joan down a little with coffeine and nicotine, Mickey started his inquisition.

"Did he ever leave like this before?"

"No."

"When did you last see him?"

"Last afternoon."

"Was anything weird about him before he left? Was he particularly edgy or nervous or aggressive or quiet?"

"He's always quiet, you know him."

"What was he doing when you last saw him?"

"Eating lunch leftovers and then he left for Alibi. It was around 5 PM."

"Okay, and you went to the Alibi and asked about him?"

"Yeah, they said he left at last call. I checked all the benches and his friend's places, but he wasn't there. I even checked the warehouse where the-" She choked back the incoming tears at the reference. Ian glanced over at Mickey, who had his hand over his mouth, scratching his cheek nervously.

"Calm down, okay?" Mickey's words were soft and Ian took a second to admire how rational, but still caring and protective he was when it came to his family, to people that mattered (no matter how much Mickey hated to admit that).

"You sure he didn't just leave?" Ian blurted out and both Mickey and Joan shot him a defensive look. His eyes dropped to the floor on instinct.

"Who is this?" The question was clearly directed to Mickey.

"Ian." Mickey cleared his throat and Ian looked up in anticipation. "My, um- medical consultant." He said awkwardly and Joan raised an inquisitive eyebrow. She got on her feet and offered a hand to Ian, but he was too focused on Mickey's embarrassment to notice. When he finally did notice, he shook her hand and she introduced herself, winking in the process.

"Could you not flirt with him." The words reached Ian's ears and he blinked, confused. Joan looked back at Mickey, speechless, and Ian registered the words came from the man. "Your husband is missing." Mickey added, raising his eyebrows in agitation. Joan laughed.

"I was just checking." She winked at Ian again. "Not just your medical consultant, then." Ian smiled and looked back at Mickey, whose hand was now rubbing his eyes and his temple.

"Can we just-" He shifted on his feet. "Move on to Iggy, your missing husband?" He stared at her, waiting. She sat back on the sofa.

"He didn't leave, I told you, all his things are home, even the car. He had nowhere to go, anyway. No money, no family other than Mickey." She shrugged nervously and Ian noticed Mickey started pacing across the room, thinking.

"Okay, go to work. We'll find him." Mickey says and she protested, shaking her head before speaking.

"No. I'm going with you."

"No, you're not. You got kids you gotta feed and if something happened to him you'll need that job more than ever." Mickey stated bluntly and Ian's eyes widened in horror. Surely Mickey had more tact than to say that to a desperate woman? And a woman who happens to be his brother's wife?

"For fuck's sake, Mickey." Ian yelled at him, but Joan's approving look reassured him.

"He's right." She said, enhaling and buttoning her coat. She moved her hair from her eyes and wiped her cheeks clean. She took another deep breath to compose herself. "Call me, please?" She pleaded, and when Mickey nodded she left without another word.

When the door closed, Mickey lay in his chair, thinking.

"Medical consultant, really?" Before he knew it, the words had left his mouth. He knew he had no reason to be angry, none whatsoever, but rage was blossoming inside his chest and he felt as if his words were fire on his lips. He took a deep breath.

"What was I supposed to say?" Mickey asked flatly. Sarcasm in his voice made Ian's stomach clench. "This is Ian, my better half, the love of my life, the man with whom I wish to spend the rest of my days, fucking on that very sofa you're sitting on and composing songs to cure his nightmares?"

Ian's shoulder twitched at the tone. "A friend would have been good enough." He shook his head in agitation and stormed off into the muddy, vacant street. He walked home, soaked from head to toe, too unnerved to care. He felt stupid for actually believing Mickey could—Mickey would—with him—of course he wouldn't. But that wasn't even the point. After three fucking months and everything that happened, he was entitled to think of Mickey as at least a friend, and having confirmation Mickey thinks of him as nothing else than a consultant, a colleague of sorts, someone to pass the time with; it was causing rage to boil inside of Ian's chest, rage he was insistent on keeping deep down where it was unreachable, where it was hidden enough never to cause actual pain. But now it was awoken and a burning sensation inside of him made his shoulder pain revive to the point where he felt that brick wall pressing against it again, three fucking months later, ruthlessly leaving its mark on his scarring skin. He breathed, doing his best to dissolve the rage and the hurt in his chest. Should he really be this shocked? Shouldn't he have expected this? It was Mickey, after all, and his diagnosis was less than secret. Sociopath, he had said, but was he really? Feeling guilt over his sister's suicide, could a sociopath experience that? And guilt so strong, so powerful, so overwhelming to make him kill his father in front of at least two dozens witnesses? Maybe sociopaths did that kind of stuff? But, no, no, no, no, no. They do it out of anger, our of frustration, out of boredom; surely they don't do it out of guilt? He sighed in resignation. There was no point in trying to figure it out, in trying to figure him out, he wasn't anyone in need of saving. He was himself and he was perfectly happy with it, Ian knew that. Ian loved him for that. No, no. Ian didn't love him. That was just an expression. A figure of speech. People said that when they liked something about someone, that was what he meant. Certainly not that— _no. Not that. God, no._

His phone buzzed in his pocket. It was a text from Mickey. He opened it.

It was a screenshot of Mickey's contacts. Ian was listed as _My friend Ian Gallagher_

 _Thanks_ was all he replied and just as he was about to put his phone back in his pocket, it vibrated against his fingers.

Mickey 

_Could use your help with Iggy_

_Please_

_Why?_

 

Mickey

_He'll probably be going through withdrawal by the time we get to him_

_He's gonna need restraining_

_Besides, Frank taught you where all the junkies hide_

_And I could use some company_

_I thought you hated company_

Mickey

_I did_

_I do_

_But I don't hate you_

_I'm screenshooting this_

Mickey

_Fuck you_

_You coming or not_

_Yeah okay_

_Where and when?_

Mickey

_Turn around_

Ian frowned at the phonescreen and turned around abruptly to see Mickey just a few feet behind. He laughed out loud and Mickey stopped, smirking. "You were just behind me all the time?"

"Pretty much." Mickey shrugged his shoulders casually.

"What's with the texts, then?"

"Figured you'd be less pissed via text."

Ian laughed again, his boiling anger subsiding rapidly, leaving him shivering from the cool April rain.

"So" He started with a teasing tone. "You couldn't last a day without my company."

"What did you just say to me?" Mickey raised his eyebrows as if insulted by the words, but Ian felt the lack of edge in his voice and it made him grow even bolder.

"I said-" He walked over to where Mickey was standing. "The thought of being without me was so insufferable that you ran after me in the pouring rain to ask me if I'd spend the day with you. And you were so scared of doing that so you fucking texted me instead." Ian laughed.

Mickey cleared his throat, looking away, considering what he just heard. After the initial confusion, his face changed to offended. "That's it, I'm changing your contact name to Medical consultant." He took a step back and dug his phone out of his pocket.

Ian scoffed at the reaction. "If you feel like lying to yourself, that's fine with me. I know what I know  now."

Mickey looked up from his phone, but not at Ian, biting his lip uncertainly. He enhaled and moved his hand to let his fingers brush his wet hair back. Ian waited for a response, still smiling knowingly, not even trying to hide his content with the situation. Mickey Milkovich looked nervous and he made that happen. He made Mickey Milkovich shut up and think.

"Can we go now?" He finally spoke and Ian shook his head at the words.

"Not before you say it."

"Say what?"

"You're in love with me."

Mickey's eyes widened at the statement. "I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm- I don't- No." The stuttered words made Ian's heart grow warmer.

"Say it."

"No."

"Fine. You know where to find me when you've stopped lying to yourself." And just like that, Ian turned around and resumed his walking, a smile tugging on his lips. They have both been kidding themselves if they thought this thing between them was just a pass-time. They've both been fucking clueless. But it was out now and Mickey knew it just as well. If he needed time to acknowledge it, then Ian was giving him time. He had all the time in the world.

"Ian." He heard him yell. Then he heard footsteps approach him rapidly and Mickey swung him around slowly, always careful of scaring him. "You just said you're fine with me lying to myself. Not that I am, I mean- lying to myself." Mickey shook his head as if indicating his words should be disregarded. "I really need your help with this. We can talk later, okay?" He raised an eyebrow impatiently and Ian nodded slightly, smirking.

"Let's go, then." They went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely comments. I beyond appreciate it!
> 
> I hope you're ready for the next few chapters because it's shaping into something highly tense and emotional.


	8. Pressure point - part two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boys walking and talking. Oh, and looking for Mickey's lost brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mention of drug abuse.

_Later that day_

 

"Iggy's- he's stuck between who he is and who people need him to be. And it's driving him crazy." A cigarette was dangling from his mouth and it made the words come out muffled, but Ian seemed to catch it anyway. "He's a good guy, basically, he's just- fucked." Ian chuckled at the words and Mickey turned to look at him. The earlier rain turned his eyes into a deep, rich green, making the contrast to his pale skin even more prominent. Stunning was the only word that came to mind. He was stunning.

"Who isn't?" Were the words that followed and Mickey huffed in response. Ian had a point. Everyone is fucked beyond repair, and the aim should never be to try to fix that brokenness. What we should all strive to is to learn how to love that brokenness because it's a part of us, imminent to our nature, non-transcending. We didn't make our fuck-ups, they made us. They shaped us and somewhere along the line, they defined us. We could fight, hell, we should fight, but not to be perfect, we should fight to love the imperfect and let the imperfect love us back, because we deserve to love and to love back, to give and to take, to destroy and to be destroyed. We are imperfect and no perfection could ever come close to the satisfying complexity and intensity of our flaws. We are imperfect and thus perfect, paradoxically defying the nature that created the dichotomy.

He and Ian, they were both broken men. It took a single look for him to feel that defectibility radiating from Ian's flesh and Ian looked back, being drawn to the exact same thing without even knowing it. Now they were here, whatever they were, two broken men roaming the South side, as if the universe was reaching out and speaking to them. What was it saying?

_I'd choose you; in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I'd find you and I'd choose you._

And when Ian lowered his gaze and reached out to close the distance between them, Mickey knew it was true. He wasn't sure about the parallel universe thing, but here and now, in this version of reality, there was only one man to whom he would offer his brokenness. And the man took it, unknowingly; and he gave it a home.

"Whatcha thinkin' about?"

Startled, Mickey looked up and met Ian's curious eyes. "Nothing."

Ian must have picked up on the defensiveness of the reply, because his eyes turned from curious to amused in a heartbeat and he raised a knowing eyebrow. "Me, then."

"Fuck you."

"Please, do."

The willingness of the response made Mickey's attitude soften and he laughed a little, shaking his head. "Later."

Ian's manipulative puppy face made him roll his eyes. "My brother is dead somewhere and you're thinking about sex?" Ian's eyes widened in horror.

"Mickey! Don't say shit like that."

"Well, look at you, all scandalized." He laughed. When Ian's disapproval didn't falter, he offered an apologetical smile. "Of course he's not dead."

"Where is he, then? 'Cause we've already been to every drug den in the neighbourhood. We gotta step up our game."

"Yeah, I should have known he wasn't gonna be there. Not his usual crowd."

"What's his usual crowd?"

"There was this girl, Karen, before I got locked up. She was the one that dragged him into the whole drugs stuff. I mean, he was no saint, don't get me wrong, but heroin was never in the picture before her. Anyway, she apparently moved away with this weirdass guy while I was locked up and he quit when he met Joan. Then, I don't know, this friend of his- I don't know the guy, I don't know what happened but he's been getting worse since I got out."

"Okay, so, logically, the friend is our next step."

"Yeah."

"But didn't Joan call him and asked already?"

"Yeah, but he wasn't gonna tell her shit. We gotta go and see for ourselves. The guy at the bar said they left together, so…"

So he's- at his place?"

"Of course he's at his place." Mickey stated and showed Ian the text with the man's address Joan sent. Ian nodded.

"And you've just figured that out now? Weren't you supposed to be a genious or something?"

Mickey frowned at the remark. "Shut up."

"I'm just trying to figure out when it all went to shit." Ian's tone was casual, but Mickey could sense the rapid escalation the conversation was bound to suffer soon.

"When what went to shit?" He, too, went with the casual approach.

"Your cleverness. You always seem to be thinking, but here you are, not seeing something so obvious not even the cops would miss it if they tried. And what was it with the last case, the bank robbery? You just left? What was that all about? Couldn't figure it out?"

The sharpness of the remark made him flinch a little and he looked at Ian, unsure of what he was implying. Unsure why he sounded like he was intentionally provoking him into saying something… What? What was he playing at? And why did it scare him? Mickey loved games. Why was it so scary to play now, then? "I told you, I don't do theft. It goes against my principles."

Ian wasn't convinced. "Fine, but something's wrong. Something's been off with you and you're hiding it from me." He stopped in his tracks.

_Whatever you do, don't put your fingers on my cheeks. Please, don't do that. If you did that, if you did that to me again, like you did this morning in the kitchen- I'd- Just don't do that again. It makes me want to- It makes me- It makes me feel like I might fall to pieces in front of you. It makes me feel like I'd do anything, everything, whatever you wanted, just to keep your fingers on my cheeks. Whatever you do, please, don't put your fingers on my cheeks. Please, don't do that._

He didn't do it. They kept walking, their pace slow, and Mickey felt his breathing steady. "I got no idea what you're talking about."

"No idea? Really? Well, that sure sounds like something a genious would say." The sarcastic tone made Mickey smile in spite of himself, because he loved it, he loved when Ian played a smartass and he loved how he never dropped a subject, no matter how much Mickey resisted, he kept pushing and breaking the walls around him, and at this pace, Mickey predicted, there wasn't going to be much defence left when—

"Would you drop it already?" All pretence was gone from his voice and he heard himself sounding upset, angry. There was no way Ian wouldn't catch that.

No. Tell me."

"Nothing to say."

"Why are you so upset all of a sudden if there's nothing to say?"  _Of course he caught it. It's Ian. I can't hide things from—_ His eyes widened at the thought and he cursed in his head, trying to get off the path his thoughts were headed on.

Mickey rubbed his eyelids with his fingers unnervingly. "Is there something in particular you want to hear?"

"Yes."

Mickey sighed. "Well? What is it?"

"The truth."

Mickey chuckled at the response. _Smartass. "_ The truth is, I don't know what you're talking about."

"Okay. Fine. Let's do this the hard way."

"How about we don't do it at all?" He suggested, hopeful.

"Not an option."

Mickey shrugged his shoulders. _Well, it was worth a try. "_ Fine, the hard way?"

"I'm gonna ask a series of questions and you're gonna answer. I'm gonna monitor your reaction so I know if you're lying."

Mickey laughed at the decisiveness. "Fuck, man, when did we switch roles here?"

"When you failed to play yours." Ian stated and Mickey felt the stung of the implication. Maybe he was being weird, after all? Yes, he was a little off today, but they got drunk last night and surely that lowers your sharpness? But it never had an effect before. He had coffee and ibuprofen and they ate and his head wasn't even hurting anymore, so the hangover isn't the likely answer. Anyway, Ian wasn't talking just about today, this was clearly something that's been bothering him for a while, so it had to have lasted for some time, at least. And that's when it struck him. _Of course Ian was all weirded out, I played a fucking song for him in front of an entire club. Then I followed him out of my apartment in the pouring rain just to make sure he wasn't mad at me. Then I texted him while following him and basically apologized. When did I start apologizing to people? This whole thing is getting seriously out of hand and he's right, I'm being fucking weird. But if he didn't want this, if he didn't want me to be—like this—why would he have said what he said last night? Last night, on the floor, he said—_ Maybe I do.

"Can we start?" The words sobered him up and he realized he must have been silent for quite a while to make Ian this impatient.

"What, now?"

"Yeah, now. We still got a long walk in front of us, lots of time to talk." He raised an eyebrow and Mickey nodded.

"Okay. First question. You hadn't noticed you've been acting weird until just now?"

 _How did he-_ Mickey sighed and nodded.

"Okay. You are scared to think about the reasons for your- weirdness?" Mickey felt Ian struggle with the words and it helped him relax a little, knowing the man next to him was still human and also affected by this conversation. He nodded.

"Okay, good. Can you tell me why you're scared."

Mickey shook his head. "Why not?"

"Can't tell you what I don't know." His voice sounded hoarse and Ian nodded slightly.

"Are you scared to think about what you're scared of thinking about?" It was a slow sentence, controlled by the pace, as if Ian was trying to piece the puzzles of his thoughts into coherency.

"Were these questions designed for idiots or are you just adjusting them to my mental state?" And with the words, he shot Ian a look and Ian laughed warmly. He was probably the only man, Mickey thought, the only man he ever met that laughed at his bitter remarks, that thought of them as amusing and witty. Mickey loved him for it.

No. Of course he didn't love him. That's—a figure of speech.

"Okay, I'm sorry. We're getting to the harder parts, I promise." Ian cleared his throat. "Next question. You think your weirdness has something to do with me."

"I don't know. Maybe. Probably."

"So it's my fault?"

"No, not your fault. I don't know. It's just been—different."

"Different good or different bad?" He inquired further.

Mickey took a second to think. "Good, I guess. Unexpected."

Ian smiled. "Unexpected's good. Means you're not bored." He made an unsure face and searched for Mickey's eyes with his.

"You thought I was bored?" The disbelief in his voice is made more obvious by the sudden rise of his eyebrows. How stupid can a man get? Bored?! Bored was the last thing he was. He was so far from bored it fucking scared him to death. His life was solving cases for the cops, cheating the government with Lip and walking the streets with Ian, relishing the feeling of accomplishment after a case and the compliments Ian was always happy to provide and the warm feeling in his chest he failed to deny at times like that, times they were so close to each other their shoulders bumped every few steps, electrifying the air between them. Oh, and sex, amazing sex, all the time? When did sex become such a frequent and fulfilling activity? That was his life now and he was so many things: excited, relaxed, amused, interested, busy, happy???? – but if there was one thing he was not, it was bored. He hadn't been bored in months.

"Crossed my mind, yeah." Ian shrugged and his eyes turn to the floor. Mickey frowned at the stupidity.

"You're an idiot." Ian's eyes shot back up to look at Mickey. He was quiet now and Mickey realized that the newfound confidence he had been displaying during the day was slowly disintegrating. "I'm not bored, Ian, not with you, not with anything." The calmness of his voice was supposed to be reassuring, but Ian just nodded slightly and averted his look towards the street in front of them. Mickey stopped walking and Ian turned around, confused.

"What's happening, Ian? Five hours ago you were convinced I'm in love with you and now you don't even believe me when I say I'm not bored?"

Ian shrugged. "I don't know with you, Mickey. I never know with you. I just guess and hope to god I don't sound stupid and drive you away."

Mickey closed the distance between them and reached for Ian, gently rubbing his fingers across the back of his neck. "I'm not bored. And you won't drive me away. You can't drive me away. You're-"

Ian's look was now hopeful. When Mickey didn't finish his statement, he raised an eyebrow. "I'm what?"

"You're-" He looked away for a second, and then back at Ian. Was he really doing this? Saying this? Feeling this? "You're the reason I'm being weird, okay? But not because I'm bored or because you're driving me away, but because I'm not used to this. I can't focus properly because when I see you, I get stuck on trying to figure out what it is I'm feeling and why I'm feeling it and why now and why for you and what I should do about it, should I run or should I push it back or should I scream my lungs out in anger and relief… and all the other stuff, the crime solving and the being a genious, it all gets pushed into background when you get in the fucking picture and I feel stuck, I've been stuck since I met you- because you make me feel stuff."

Ian's blinking wasn't helping the strong lump forming in his stomach, making his mouth dry and his fingers sweaty. Ian's blinking wasn't helping at all. Ian's blinking was freaking him out because it had been going on for quite a while now and he hadn't said anything else and Mickey knew it would freak him out, he knew it, because it freaked him out too and they were the same when it came to this kind of things; and yet Mickey hoped Ian would be fine with it, or like it, even; because Mickey was somehow strangely okay with it all and they were supposed to be the same when it came to this kind of things. But Ian was still blinking and that must hurt, Mickey thought, all the blinking must hurt his eyes. Only a few seconds passed, Mickey realized, but that was a few seconds too many and he felt his brain struggle into overdrive.

"I- I make you feel stuff?" The blinking had stopped and glassy, green eyes were now staring at Mickey impatiently.

"Yes."

"What kind of stuff?" The eyes wanted to know.

"I don't know. You know. I've been-"

"Happy?" The eyes suggested.

"Define _happy_."

The eyes rolled back. Ian sighed, obviously unnerved. "Energetic, positive about the outcome of life, less prone to contemplation, less pessimistic?"

"The outcome of life is death."

Ian sighed again. "Well, that answers it."

Mickey bit his lip. "The other things were- true, I guess."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Ian smiled. Mickey knocked at the door in front of them. The sun descended and the darkness cooled the air they breathed. The door opened. A man in his late twenties, dark hair, sweatpants and a t-shirt stood in front of them. His pupils were dilated, Mickey noted, his hair was scruffy and greasy. His lips were dry. _Dehidration?_ No ring on his finger, no watch. Behind him, the house was dark and quiet. Mickey saw no clock there, either. _Unemployed? Or just uses his phone to check the time, you idiot. Focus. Fucking focus._ The man's hands curled into fists and his left leg was twitching rhythmically _._ There were drops of sweat on his forehead and Mickey looked back to his eyes, noticing now the reddness of what was supposed to be the white of his eyes. _Withdrawal, and a bad one at that._ He glanced over at Ian and knew Ian saw it, too. Of course he did, Mickey thought, Ian was—He stopped himself and turned to the man at the door again, realising the man was now frowning at the two of them, alarmed by their silence.

Ian cleared his throat. "Is Iggy here?"

"Who wants to know?"

"His brother."

The man wet his lips and shifted on his feet. "He's, um- not here, no."

"How very convincing." Mickey noted and pushed the man to the side to enter his house uninvited. He was pleased to hear Ian close the door behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay with this one, guys. Exams got me good this time. Thank you for staying tuned and all feedback is always appreciated! 
> 
> Next chapter is when the drama unravels. I hope you're ready. A bumpy ride awaits.


	9. Pressure point - part three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A battle no one leaves scarfree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Description of violence. Suicidal references. PTSD symptoms.

_Come back,_ the text said. He turned his phone off.

There was no fucking way he was doing this to himself.

He worked too hard to get where he is. Too fucking hard. And Mickey was a large part of that. A crucial part. But now? Now, he he felt like Mickey took all of his progress between the fingers of his hands and crushed it, letting it fall to the ground. Then, he stomped on it with vigor, draining every last ounce of hope from it. He had to walk away, he had to, before his strength turned to ashes beneath Mickey's feet. He had to walk away. So he did. It's been fifteen minutes and he was still walking away. He was still walking, even though it was raining again, because if he stopped, he just might turn around and run back to him. And he couldn't do that. Not now. Not after this.

 

_He's happy, Ian thought, he's actually happy. He made Mickey Milkovich happy. He made Mickey Milkovich happy and Mickey Milkovich made him happy, too. So, sitting on the floor, breathing in long forgotten dust that kept clouding the surrounding air, his pupils still adjusting to the darkness, his heart pounding in his chest, his fingers on the Iggy's wrist, Mickey just a step away; Ian felt air being sucked out of his chest. Because he made Mickey happy and Mickey made him happy and Mickey was right there in front of him, being held in a choke with a kitchen knife poking at his neck and Ian was desperately looking for a way to save both of the men because choosing, clearly, wasn't an option. He could never choose._

_"Go get it or I slit his throat." A shaky voice ordered._

_"This is a stupid plan." Mickey blurted and Ian looked at him, bewildered.  The grip on his neck tightened. "Get this whole slitting-stabbing thing over with, so he can get my brother to the ER." His voice was flat, his breathing was even and Ian stared at him in confusion. What was he playing at? He made him happy. He can't just make himself a target like that. He made him happy and he wanted to make him happy for as long as he could. And this, this- this could be the end of it. The end of them. The end of him. And he was provoking the guy with the knife?_

_"Mickey!" Iggy shouted and Mickey looked down at his brother, unable to move._

_"Ian." He just said, ignoring his brother's protests. What was that supposed to mean? Ian, shut up? Ian, trust me? Ian, keep up? Ian, focus on keeping my brother alive? Ian, punch this guy in the face? Ian, save me? He had no idea. He had  no idea what his name on Mickey's lips meant this time._

_His mind wandered to all those times when Mickey spoke his name. Thinking about it, he realised that only on one occasion would Mickey say his name like that (well, not exactly like that, but close enough): that bare, that delicate, that expressive, and it was during sex, while looking at his eyes, lost in pleasure, his hair dishelved, his eyes pleading, the letters warm on his lips. Ian would take them, swallowing the sound of his name being said with such need, such naked adoration, and the tender whisper on his lips would hypnotize him further, taking him in and making him lost and found, paradoxically, simultaneously. What had his name meant then? More? Less? Yes? Or something less mechanical? What did people think during sex? Why would they say someone's name in such a lingering, gentle way, just their name and nothing else, not a word, just their name? What did it mean? Three letters. One word. His name. The only thing Mickey ever said while their bodies lay together, their fingers entertwined, engrossed completely in a newly-created reality. The only word. Ian._

_It scared him to death now, hearing his name like that again, that intimate, that heavy. What did it mean?_

_Ian._

_It sounded important. It sounded… imploring?_

_Ian._

_It sounded, somehow, more honest than any information they'd ever shared._

_Ian._

_It sounded wistful._

_It sounded demanding._

_Ian._

_But, what was he demanding? What did it mean?_

_"Ian." It wasn't an echo in his mind this time. His look sharpened and his fingers were still on Iggy's wrist. He focused back on Iggy for a second, relieved that his pulse was still somewhat steady, and then looked at Mickey and nodded reassuringly._

_"Do it, I don't have time for this shit. Do it." The tone of Mickey's voice grew colder. "Do it." He ordered. Ian felt panic rise from the bottom of his stomach and overwhelm his abdomen, pressuring his chest. This wasn't his first hostage(-y) situation. It was the first, however, in which the hostage was trying to get himself killed._

_"Mickey, say another word and I swear to fucking god, I will stab you personally. And I won't be as merciful to go for the throat." Ian shot him a dark look, but Mickey's resolution didn't waver. He turned his head a little towards the man behind him._

_"Look, just do it. If I need to die to get my brother to the ER, then I need to die. It's that simple."_

_Ian's stomach clenched in shock. Iggy's hands were shaking under his fingers and every breath he drew grew more erratic. "Mickey." He was shouting now. "Shut the fuck up, okay?"_

_"Why would I?"_

_"Because it's not that simple, that's why." His brother screamed at him and his voice echoed between the old house walls._

_Mickey laughed bitterly. "Oh, but it really is. You got a family to take care of. What do I got?"_

_Ian looked back at Iggy, whose mouth fell shut at the memory what he was doing to his children. His eyes were shut, and his hair was weat from the sweat on his forehead. Mickey was right, Ian thought, except he wasn't. He might not have kids and yes, kids should definitely be a priority, but Ian couldn't supress the selfish side of himself, the side that was begging Mickey not to do this, not to say this, not to be a fucking target, not to make him sit there and watch him bleed out. They needed a plan, that was what they needed. They needed to get the upper-hand, they needed to think of something, and Mickey's bickering wasn't helping at all. They needed to stall, Ian decided, because the man looming over Mickey seemed to get more shaky by the second, and if they could stall, maybe there was a chance that everyone could get out of there alive. But they can't stall for too long, because Iggy was feverish under Ian's fingers and his pulse was accelerating, making his overdose grow exponentially more dangerous by the second. Ian could only be relieved it was cocaine, because if it had been heroin—_

_"You got me." Ian offered and got up from the floor, walking towards Mickey. The man with the knife tensed up and Ian shook his head. "It's okay, I'm just gonna, look, I-" He raised his hands in reassurance. "It's fine, I'm not gonna come any closer, okay? But can I say goodbye to my boyfriend, at least?"_

_Mickey's eyes widened at the words, but he stayed silent. The man with the knife nodded slightly and sniffed frivolously. Ian's look was searching his, but the man's bloodshot eyes roamed freely all over the room, unfocused. "Look, I'm sorry Iggy took all your shit, but he took too much and we gotta get him to the ER now." Ian's voice was calm, he noticed, he had always worked well under pressure. That was probably the only reason he was still alive after everything that happened back in Iraq._

_"No."_

_"Why not?"_

_"You can't go until you get me some."_

_"Okay, well, I'm gonna come closer now so I can say goodbye to him in case something bad happens and I don't see him again. Then I'm gonna go get you what you need, okay?" He raised a reassuring eyebrow, still talking softly and slowly, and the man's eyes settled on his for a quick second. He sniffed and nodded again._

_Ian took a step forward. "You got me." He repeated. "Look at me." Mickey did. "You got me.  So you can't go around looking for people to slit your throat, okay? You can't do that, Mickey." Mickey nodded. "Tell me, no, promise me you're not gonna do anything stupid until I get back." Mickey's gaze wandered and Ian put a hand on his cheek. "Promise me." Mickey's eyes settled on his, uncertain, frightened. "I promise." He said, but the words seemed to be trapped in his throat. He coughed and repeated. "I promise.“_

_Ian smiled a little, his fingers still on Mickey's cheek. "Good. That's good. I'm gonna kiss you now, okay?“_

_Mickey nodded. The man with the knife got even more fidgety as time passed. Ian saw his chance._

_He leaned in, touching Mickey's lips with his absently. The hand on Mickey's cheek slid down his neck, catching the wrist that was holding the knife and twisting it expertly. The man screamed in pain and Mickey jerked his head back, punching the man's nose with the back of his head. He fell back and Ian thumped him in the face again, causing him to fall on the floor with his hands over his head. Mickey dialled 911._

 

Fucking Mickey.

Ian's head burned as he walked into his house. He realised he hadn't been there in two days. Had anyone noticed?

He took some milk and poured it over some cereal. After eating, he took a shower. The filth in which they found Iggy in was still clutching onto his skin. He let the steam run over his aching shoulder. When did that start hurting again? Somewhere between measuring Iggy's pulse and watching Mickey trying to get himself kill, probably.

Shit. He was overreacting, he saw that, but it had been so—

So—

So—what? What had it been? And why was he this affected by Mickey being a reckless asshole? Mickey was always a reckless asshole. Hell, he signed up for reckless asshole. He knew that. He loved that. He loved that reckless asshole. And he almost died right in front of him.

He almost died.

And Ian would have had to watch.

He would have had to watch him draw his last breath.

He would have had to listen the last words he spoke. What would they have been? _I'm sorry? Save my brother? I had a good time? I was happy? I lov-_ No. That wouldn't have been it. Probably something funny. Leave it to Mickey Milkovich to be the funny guy at his own execution.

Ian rubbed his temples, trying to relax his tense muscles under the stream of warm liquid.

He loved him, that much was clear now. Those few minutes of hell were more than enough to make him understand. He was in love with Mickey Milkovich. He was in love with his sardonic smugness, unbelievable intelligence, supreme rudeness, with his sarcastic sense of humor, with the way his lips looked after Ian had kissed them, with the way his eyes glowed after he solved a case, with the way his cheeks flushed before coming, with the way he spoke Ian's name. Fuck, he was in love with him. Even with the stupid, silly parts. Even with the parts that scared him. Especially with those.

He breathed heavily. He was gone on him, there was no point in denying that now. 

But he couldn't do this to himself. If Mickey loved him back, hell, if Mickey felt anything at all, he wouldn't have cared so little. He wouldn't have looked straight at him and begged to be killed. And that's exactly what he did.

 

_"We are monitoring his pulse and breathing and we have him on adequate pharmaceuticals to restrain his edginess. He should fall asleep once the effects wear off. It's good that you called us when you did. His heart could have suffered some permanent damage if he didn't recieve medical attention on time."_

_Mickey nodded and the doctor nodded back. "Look, you can go home now and come back in the morning. I assure you he's being taken care of properly.“_

_"No, I'll stay."_

_"Okay, if that's what you want, but your brother is stable and en route to recovery."_

_"Thank you. I'll stay anyway." He smiled. The doctor smiled back._

_"As you wish." She left. Mickey enhaled, relieved. He turned around and there was Ian, leaning on the coffee machine, watching him. He crossed the hallway and stopped a few steps away._

_"You should go home, he's fine. I'll stay tonight."_

_Ian ran fingers through his hair nervously. "What the fuck was that, Mickey?"_

_"What was what?"_

_Ian's fists clenched.  "Don't fucking play dumb with me. I thought I was supposed to be the one with a death wish in this relationship?"_

_"Relationsip?" Mickey's eyebrow quirked up. Ian enhaled sharply._

_"Yes, relationship, I'm fucking done pretending that's not what this is. It's a relationship and you fucking deal with it." He sputtered. Mickey looked away from him, silent. "You can't do shit like that to me, Mickey."_

_"Look. I had it all figured out, okay?" Mickey tried, but_ _Ian laughed bitterly. "No, you didn't."_

_"Yeah, I did. I knew you got it covered."_

_Ian laughed again. "But I didn't!" Anger was boiling inside of his chest and everyone in the room turned towards the noise they were making. Well, Ian was making. "I didn't have it covered." He said, trying not to shout this time._

_"Yeah, you did. We're here, aren't we?" Mickey smiled. Ian shook his head in disbelief._

_"You're an idiot, Mickey. You could have died. If his reflexes were just a little faster…" He trailed off, but Mickey put a hand on his arm and he spoke gently._

_"But they weren't. They weren't. You had me covered, I knew you would, adrenaline makes you sharp."_

_Ian took a step back, breathing heavily. "I can't- I don't- I can't do this. I'm sorry. I can't watch you- Not after- I'm sorry." He turned around and walked to the elevator. His name being called reached his ears, but he shook it off. He rubbed his sweaty palms together and tried to steady his breathing. He couldn't do this. He could deal with being in a relationship that wasn't a relationship and following Mickey around on stupid adventures. He could deal with looking at dead bodies from time to time, hell, that wasn't something to deal with, it was something to enjoy in a professional, medical kind of way. He could deal with whatever Mickey needed, but he couldn't deal with this. The memories of his delicate state of mind had been triggered, and by whom? By the man who did everything to make them go away. For a second there, Ian felt as if he was back in that hospital, everyone around him dead, the smell of rotten flesh engulfing the air. For a second, he felt as if he was seconds away from being crushed by a huge piece of a wall, piercing through his skin. His shoulder twitched as he entered the elevator. He didn't hear his name being called again. What was Mickey fucking thinking? Fine, if it came down to it, Ian couldn't disagree: Iggy's kids needed a father. But being that reckless, that stupid, what was that? It was clear that any upper-hand the man had had wouldn't last and they'd eventually regain control, but one wrong move could have meant—it could have meant—_

_Ian breathed freely once he was out of the building. It was a long walk back home, but he decided it could do him some good. The adrenaline was slowly wearing off and he focused on his posture, trying to appear calm. His shoulder ached, but he ignored the pain, keeping his pace steady and his face stiff. He was a soldier, for god's sake. Soldiers respond to fear with discipline. Discipline. Discipline. Discipline. Fucking Mickey, what the fuck was that? Why would he, after all the effort he put in making sure Ian wouldn't—'Taking your own life. Interesting expression. Taking it from who? Once it's over it's not you who'll miss it. Your own death is something that happens to everybody else.'_

_And he was right, Ian knew it now. Why couldn't he have taken his own advice, then?_

He turned the shower off and stepped out. After he dried himself, he walked into his room and turned his phone on. Three texts. He jumped on the bed and drew a couple of deep breaths to steady himself before reading them. They were all from Mickey.

_I'm sorry_

_Please call me_

_Ian, we gotta talk. Please call me or text or whatever. Just talk to me_

Ian bit his lip in frustration.

 _Don't_ , he just replied.

 _Don't what?_ was the answer.

_Don't anything. Just don't._

_Why are you making such a big deal out of this?_ was what Mickey wrote back.

Ian laughed bitterly. His laugh turned into anger and his chest was boiling. He got up from his bed and threw the phone into the wall of his bedroom. It fell to pieces and Ian laughed victoriously above them. _Always so mature, Ian. Always in control._ He ignored the blunt pain in his shoulder and fell back into his bed, letting exhaustion take over his consciousness. He slept. That night, Ian's nightmares featured a perverse mix of butchered soldiers and Mickey Milkovich with his throat open wide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long to update. I had something written, but I didn't like it, so I had it redone and I hope it works better now and isn't confusing/disappointing. 
> 
> Also, I think I really dialled it down with the Sherlock referencing. The one in this chapter is so important to me, though, it defined me as a person and as a writer (the one about life being 'not your own') so I saw it suitable to incorporate it. 
> 
> All my love! Thank you for being patient with me!


	10. Balance of probability

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is Mickey in love?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for mention of past violence and psychiatric disorders.

_April_

 

 _Afoot. Afoot. Such a funny word. It's like a foot, but afoot. Oh, stop it. Focus. Concentrate. Breathe._ So, what he was able to tell by the look of it was _\- Afoot. A-foot. A foot. aaaa-foot. a f o o t. FUCK. STOP._ „By the look of it, it was definitely a woman, mid twenties, no children. At least none she gave birth to, the skin on her thighs and stomach isn't nearly flexible enough. No indicators of a violent death, but she was found in an alley behind a night club so it clearly must have been somewhat violent, hence poisoning. I mean, we can't know, but if I had to guess, poison is our best shot.“ _Mhm, what else. Afoot. AFOOT. SHUT UP_.

"Well, doesn't look like she was raped or assaulted. She probably knew the killer and went with him or her voluntarily. Judging by the style, it could easily be a woman or a man who killed her." He paused. "Expensive clothes and makeup indicate she's rich. She is young so probably family money." He paused again and looked at Detective Jones like he was searching for some kind of approval in the woman's eyes. He was feeling extremely strange today. It had been a week since he last saw Ian, last spoke to him, and all his attempts to get in contact were so far successfully avoided by the man. Not that he tried too hard after the first day. He had called and texted and when Ian failed to respond in any form, the message seemed to be clear enough. He didn't want to talk, he didn't want to meet, he didn't want anything to have to do with Mickey. Anything at all. Because Mickey was—what was he, exactly? Too reckless for Ian's taste? That made no fucking sense. He had always been reckless. He was Mickey Milkovich. If he had a middle name and if it hadn't been Aleksandr, it would have been Reckless. _Fuck, that was a stupid fucking thought. FOCUS._

 "Okay." He looked down at the body and crouched next to it. He opened one eyelid with his fingers. "Constricted." He paused, thinking. He observed the body once more, running his fingers along the muscles of the woman's arms and abdomen. "Rigor mortis. So, dead for over three hours. If less time had passed, her pupils could have told us something, but not now. We can't know until the toxicology report comes through." Mickey kept shifting his look from the body to Lisa and she nodded in encouragment all through his deposition. He cleared his throat and when he failed to talk further, Lisa gave him a confused look.

"What's wrong, Mikhailo?"

"Don't call me that. Only my-"

"Only your mother called you that, yeah, I know, but something's wrong and you're acting strange. Since I'm technically your employer, you are obliged to talk to me if anything happens that interfers with your working ability."

"Fucking fine, Lisa, chill. My brother's OD'd so this past week had been stressful." He ran his thumb over his lower lip in agitation, trying to convey his discomfort with this sudden attention to his private life. Detective Lisa Jones' face frowned in confusion and a hint of regret.

"My god, Mickey, I'm sorry. Is he okay?"

"Fine now. Going through withdrawal." He took a last puff of his cigarette before tossing it on the pavement.

"Go, then, we're fine here."

"No." He enhaled sharply. "Actually, I-" He trailed off. "I could use the distraction." He looked away, but caught Lisa's apprehensive nod with a glimpse.

"Yeah, I get that." She walked over to him and put a hand on his back, guiding him towards the car. "Let's go see our suspects, shall we?" Mickey followed.

 

-

 

"Boyfriend, 28. Been together for 6 months, met at the diner he works at as a cook. No offences, just a few parking tickets." Mickey looked at the file in his hand and back to the suspect, nodding.

"Can I talk to him?" He suggested, but Lisa shook her head.

"You know you're not allowed to do that."

Mickey rolled his eyes. "You go, then. Just don't send one of your incompetent wanna-be-FBI idiots." Lisa laughed at the sarcastic remark, clearly agreeing with Mickey's assessment. Mickey grinned at the reaction.

She went into the room where Marcus sat with his hands on his face, visibly shaken by the news he had recieved earlier. Mickey watched the man with interest as Lisa asked the standard repertoir of questions and, after a while, Mickey was getting bored with the procedure.

His mind unwillingly turned back to Ian. He loved having him at crime scenes. It was there where he could most carefully track the progress he'd been making. From the man who fought the urge to run from their first crime scene together, he developed into a confident medical consultant who not only took pleasure in watching Mickey work, but also provided invaluable insight into anatomical and physiological problems Mickey knew next to nothing about.  Mickey felt like he got to witness glimpses of Ian's personality Ian kept locked out from the rest of the world and it helped him see everything Ian was, everything he could be, if he would just let himself go. It was stunning to watch. Ian would talk, completely unaffected by the world around him, stopping only to lock eyes with Mickey briefly, before returning to the world he was clearly so comfortable in. It was mesmerizing.

All Mickey could do when he watched him like that was restrain himself from kissing him right there. It would have been inappropriate to say the least, and people always kept telling him about how one should avoid being inappropriate, so he tried his best to focus on the case in question.

He returned to reality when he heard the door of the room he was in open and Lisa walk in with a questioning look on her face. "Anything?" She asked and Mickey looked at her, dumbfounded. He cleared his throat and shook his head.

She sighed, wearily. "Well, we'll have to let him walk."

"Mhm." He concluded, looking back to the restless man in the room and then left without another word, lost in thought. He lit a cigarette the second he reached the exit of the building. April grew warmer by the day and Mickey's attempts to ignore the sudden rush of people enjoying each other's company and the nice weather all failed miserably. Wherever he went, they were there, as if stalking him, reminding him.

_Reminding me of what? What the fuck is wrong with me? It has been proven a countless number of times: people are only interesting when you don't know them. Once they start talking, they dissolve into a hot, thick mass of mediocrity that melts inside your brain, causing you to convulse from boredom._

 

-

 

Whisky followed. Lots of it.

Next, the club. _The_ club.

He couldn't really tell how he got there, but suddenly he was at the entrance, greeting the familiar body guards warmly. Too warmly, perhaps. The hugging seemed to have freaked them out a little, but Mickey was equally unaffected and oblivious. He got another drink and turned towards the stage, from where a familiar tune echoed.

What was it?

 _When you drown, I'll drown_  
  
_We started as a fever_  
 _We turned into an ache that never goes_  
 _And if I couldn't fix it_  
 _I guess, well now you're better off alone_  
  
_When you drown, I'll drown_

His brain froze at the words. He inhaled the sweet scent of alcohol and the old furniture and closed his eyes, letting the song pierce through his brain slowly. He words flowed and the variations followed. First, piano. Next, cello. By the time the guitar took the lead, his throat felt tight and his mouth was dry. He swallowed back the unexpected emotions with a gulp of his whisky and approached the stage just as the last beats of the song were played. He shook hands with the man on the piano and he stood up, leaving Mickey to take his place.

"Could we do this one?" He asked and he played the first tones. When the rest of the players joined in spontaneously, he relaxed into the tune. A beautiful, strong melody poured freely from his fingertips and onto the instrument in front of him, bending him to his will, draining sorrow and hope from its core simultaneously.

The raw voice rang through the crowded room. Mickey felt himself drown completely in the theme. Minutes passed unnoticed and his fingers left the keys, still twitching restlessly in the air. He breathed and the thick air dissolved into realisation, setting in his mind, overwhelming him. _Could it have been love he felt?_ _Could it have been, after all these years, after all the denial?_

_No, that can't be it. Anti-social personality disorder, they said. Extremely unlikely to form enduring relationship, they said. Next to zero possibility, to be exact, they said._

When he had been eighteen, they first said that and the diagnosis stuck till the very day. It always would because it was accurate. Irrational or impulsive behavior? Well, that was pretty straight-forwardly exhibited when he shot his father in the face on a rampage. Lack of remorse? Well, he didn't regret it for a second, that one. Failure to conform to social norms with respect to lawful behaviors? Most definitely. Manipulating for personal sake or pleasure? Yes, please. Irritability and aggressiveness? Not lately. But the history cannot be ignored. He was a sociopath, he knew that. He accepted that. He accepted everything that meant such a long time ago it felt like he never had been nothing else but what he believed to be today. But now, a thought itched at the back of his skull, making him wonder if some things could defy the predictions. Yes, unlikely to form enduring relationships, they had said that and it had been true, very true, all up to this point. It wasn't so much that a relationship of sorts was formed, but it seemed to him that the mere fact that he wanted, fuck, sometimes even felt like he needed it to be formed and to stay formed, was what was different. He was no longer Mickey Milkovich, the high-functioning sociopath. He was now Mickey Milkovich, the high-functioning sociopath who spent half of his waking hours wishing he could be spending them with a man, a stunning, remarkable man, a man who understood, a man who spoke cleverly or failed to speak at all, a man who made his apartment a little brighter and his bed a little warmer, a man who made his heart a little softer and his voice a  little hoarser. A man who somehow got to know so much of him, so much of what had always been hidden, and acted towards it like it was something precious, worth praising. A man after whom he caught himself smelling a hundred times, it seemed; a man who'd smile and dissolve the strong urge to run that always seemed to follow him. A man who'd lift him up effortlessly, even when he had still been injured, and placed him wherever he most wanted him. A man who took him, all of him, and gave himself in return, worrying little about the consequences. A man who scratched his back while inside of him. A man who squeezed his neck while coming inside of him. A man who acted as if Mickey was fragile glass, scared not to shatter him when they talked. A man who took that glass in his hands and crumbled it, drawing blood, when they fucked. He was all of it, and so much more, and he could have been his entirely. He could have been his and Mickey could have been his back, he felt it now like a rush inside of himself. Like every atom in his body screamed for re-establishment, for enlivement.

 But he had nowhere to go. Nowhere at all. Ian didn't want him anymore.

 He stumbled from the stage all the way to the exit, ignoring the mildly confused looks from the crowd that had listened to him play only moments earlier.

Mickey walked, barely sober, to the diner in which Ian and he had their first date. He glanced casually at the booth they sat in, Mickey's usual booth, before settling in at the opposite end of the diner. He tried to smile when Brenda came up with a coffee pot, but he could see by the look Brenda gave him that it probably came across as stiff and irritated. She smiled softly and poured him a cup of coffee.

"You okay, baby?" She asked and he nodded silently. She shifted her weight from one leg to another, looking unconvinced. "Where's that pretty red boyfriend of yours tonight?"

Her face turned from curious to worried in a heartbeat and Mickey cursed himself internally for being so painfully obvious and easy to read. "What did you do, boy? Scare him off?" She demanded and he still said nothing, so she sat across from him, frowning.

"Baby, I ain't leavin' here until you talk." She said and leaned back, resting the coffee pot on the table. Mickey looked around at the empty diner, realising Brenda's shift had probably just started and she could sit there for hours, her eyes drilling a hole in his skull, driving him crazy.

"It's fine, I'm fine." He trailed off. "We stopped seeing each other."

"Why'd you do that?"

"Because things weren't working out for him."

"What things?" She demanded and Mickey sighed heavily, searching for the words.

"Things." He started. "My things, you know? Me." He arched an eyebrow, but she still wasn't convinced.

"What about you?"

"I don't know, I was, what was the expression? Emotionally unavailable? He wanted, I don't know, someone saner. Someone capable of-" He failed to finish the thought, but she seemed to understand the point he was trying to make, as the next words from her mouth were: "Love."

Mickey cleared his throat and made a shrugging gesture with his eyebrows. "Apparently."

He heard her sigh heavily and he lifted his look from his coffee cup to the woman sitting across from her. "You know, for a genious, you can be really stupid, boy."

He stared at her in shock. "If it wasn't love what you felt, what was it? Huh?"

He blinked. "What was it, Mickey? C'mon, what is it you always say- deduce it?" A corner of her mouth twitched upwards in a slight smile and Mickey bit his lip, thinking about the things she was implying.

"I don't know, he was- interesting." He paused. "He challenged me. In every way possible."

She nodded.

"He- made me feel-" Another pause. "Good, I guess? Fuck, I don't know. I'm not good at this. He's the one who always had this kind of stuff figured out, I don't know." His frustration grew, but Brenda's eyes only widened before she spoke, a calm voice making Mickey relax back into the chair.

"Then ask him."

He frowned. "Ask him what?"

"Ask him to tell you what you feel for him. He'll know."

"He thought I was-" He cleared his throat. "In love with him or something, which is ridiculous."

Brenda laughed lightly. "Is it?"

"Of course it is, I don't- I never-"

"How would you know, then?" She stood up and took the coffee pot in her hand. "Ask him. He'll know." And she left behind the counter, leaving Mickey to deliberate.

He hated these heart-to-hearts, hated them with all his might. They were stupid and unnecessary and tedious, but Brenda might have just been onto something here. He couldn't know for himself if he felt something he never had before, but Ian could. Ian knew about things like that. Ian understood.

Love was fun, Ian had said, back at their first case together. Fun.

This couldn't be it, then, because this was nowhere near fun. This was, actually, similar to torture.

To feel physical need for someone's company, how could that be fun? And to have that company taken from you without a promise to ever have it back, there was nothing fun about it. That was torture, by his standards.

Still, he couldn't help but wonder what Ian had meant. It was fun, before the whole his brother almost dying and Ian ignoring him since incident happened. It was a lot of things, sure, but most of all, it was fun. Ian was—what? Gorgeous? Different, somehow? Amusing, compelling, refreshing?

Yes to all, Mickey realised.

Yes to all. So he typed a text.

 _What do I feel for you?_ it read and Mickey sent it, not really expecting an answer. If Ian hadn't replied at any other texts, the balance of probability was, this one wasn't going to be any different.

Odds were, apparently, in his favor tonight, because his phone chimed not a minute after his text was sent.

_In a word? Love_

Mickey stared at the text, blinking. Well, that was of no help at all. Thank you, Ian Gallagher, for making this even harder.

He sighed, putting the phone in his pocket and leaving the diner. Love it was, then. He was in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first song played in the club is Wastelands by Amber run. The second one (the one Mickey plays on the piano) is I won't complain by Benjamin Clementine. Neither of these are jazz songs (and it's a jazz club Mickey's in), but it is common practice for different genre songs to be variated in a jazz improvisation, which is what I tried to convey. 
> 
> Thank you for bearing with me. All my love. Hope you like where this is going. x


	11. The stuff that you wanted to say (-)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oops. More drama. Oh, well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for violence.

"So, Ian, tell me about your week so far."

"Nothing much to say. I started at my job, it's been pretty uneventful so far but I think I've been doing really good." He smiled. "Thanks again for clearing me."

She nodded openly. "You made it happen, Ian. There have been minor set-backs but you handled it admirably." She offered a supportive smile. "So, your shoulder is all healed too, I presume?"

"Yeah, it has been for weeks now. Your clearance was the final step of the recovery."

"Good, I'm glad." She paused to scribble something in her notepad. "So, work is good. How are other things?"

"What other things?" He chuckled. When she looked down and started writing again, he urged himself to say something less alarming. "I went out for drinks with the new colleagues last night. They seem cool." He added honestly. Therapists encouraged that kind of social behavior, so mentioning it couldn't hurt, right?

"Okay, that's great. Did you have fun?"

"I guess, yeah. It's all still pretty new, so, I don't know, I don't wanna make a big deal out of it."

"I understand why you'd feel the urge to be careful, but don't hold yourself back too much. Socialising has proven very useful for rehabilitation." She said and Ian rolled his eyes.

Rehabilitation. What did that even mean? Why would he want to rehabilitate if it meant putting up with things that made him leave in the first place? Socialising, sure. But under any cost? No way. He'd rather be alone than waste his nights on tedious people in bars with bad music playing. It was downright painful.

Luckily, his colleagues seemed pretty decent so far, so Ian didn't argue. "Sure." he just said and his therapist wrote something else down. That constant writing made him fucking uncomfortable. He sighed.

"And the guy you've been seeing?"

Ian bit his cheek. "Told you last week, that's over."

"So no news?"

"No, no news." She scribbled something again. "He sent me a text the other day. Asked what he felt for me." Ian chuckled lightly. "So clueless, that one."

"Did you reply?"

"Yeah, I said he loved me."

"Love? Isn't that a little serious?"

Ian rolled his eyes again. "Don't tell me you're one of those people." When the woman across from him shot him a puzzled look, he cleared his throat. "One of those people, you know, that believe you can only love someone after you know literally every little thing about them.“ He sighed. "It doesn't work that way, I don't see it like that. What Mickey feels for me, love is the only way to describe it. Sure, it's complicated and fucked up in ways I can't explain because he isn't just like any other guy, but don't you see by now? That's why your rules of 'when love is love and not something else' don't apply here, they're useless. He loves me. Besides, four months is a decent amount of time to fall in love with someone." He finished and the woman nodded expressionlessly. Ian sighed again.

"Right." She said, unconvinced. Ian bit his cheek again. He didn't need her to understand. He understood, that was enough. If only Mickey would fucking understand it, too. "If he loves you and you feel the same way" She started carefully. "Why not give it another chance?"

"I'm just giving him time to catch up. He's a little slow on the emotions department, you know." Ian smirked.

"How long are you prepared to wait, though?"

"As long as he needs." He retorted calmly.

"Okay, that's good. It's important to work on relationships we care about." She stated and he nodded approvingly. Here came the lecture. "While in rehabilitation, ex-soldiers experience great deal of anxiety in developing close relationships, especially with people that were parts of their lives before they got shipped off. They feel misunderstood, overwhelmed by expectations to have remained the same or changed very little and thus cornered into a feeling of discrepancy between the person they feel they've become and the person they're expected to be, which is sometimes the furthest of what they are comfortable with. You have shown great resillience towards that form of anxiety and your family, although initially behaving this particular way, showed a great deal of understanding towards your problems and hasn't pressured you into your old roles within the family nor the society. However, some of those roles are inevitable, such as Ian: the occupant of a law-obiding and paying job, which you have been sucessfully meeting so far. A worrying factor a lot of soldiers tend to experience is a case of codependency when they first meet a person they strongly connect with after traumatic experiences of their recent past. Now, I admit I was scared that was what's going on with your boyfriend, but your actions concerning the situation you were in a couple of weeks ago proved me wrong, as did the responsible behavior which followed. Your actions were ruled by reason and self-preservation. All in all, Ian, my point is, I believe you are perfectly capable of a healthy relationship. That being said, though, I'm not sure about your choice of partner. Could that be healthy in the long-term, that's what you need to be worried about.“ She finished her speech and Ian opened his mouth to reply, but she interrupted again.

"No. Think about it and get back to me next week, yes?"

He nodded. He didn't need to think about it. It wasn't healthy in her sense of the word, but it was perfect for the two of them. It was all he wanted, Mickey playing for him, solving cases around Chicago, secretly cuddling in their sleep, bickering about nonsense, exploring each other's bodies until there is no ground left uncovered, and then starting all over again. It was healthy because it was theirs, they made it: their little cocoon, their piece of the universe. She might not understand, but he didn't need to think about it, because he knew. He was in love with that man and that man made his chest warm with laughter, affection and childish happiness. That man made him reinvent himself and leave behind all boundaries his mind had created, intent of keeping him down.

She might not understand it, but Mickey was such a big piece of his recovery. Or, as she would prefer: rehabilitation. And no, that didn't mean they were codependent, that just meant that Mickey had been there, had listened and had made Ian reflect, while simultaneously pushing him towards the future. It just meant they were building a life, building their own happiness, rebuilding themselves from ruins of their past. Together.

Oh. _OH._

He didn't need to think. He needed to run.

He needed to run and to get to Mickey's all sweaty and breathless, his hair disheveled, blurting out random conclusions he just got to.

Because he did get to them. Conclusions, obviously.

What were they? He tried to remember, running down the street, but the diner he and Mickey had their first date in distracted him, bringing his thoughts around that very night, the night of their first kiss. The clarity of the memory struck him abruptly and he halted, breathing heavily. He turned on his heels, letting the world spin around him, taking the familiar scent of Dior carve itself into his brain once again. He searched with frantic eyes until they settled on a dim figure across the street.

He ran towards it.

He yelled the name.

The figure stilled in front of him.

 

-

 

"Lisa, for fuck's sake. Listen to me." He yelled. "It's all connected: the two women at the warehouse, the robberies, the woman in the alley." He laughed. "It's all connected, don't you see?" He was screaming now, pulling at his hair in agitation.

"I hear you, Mickey." She yelled back. "But I don't have any proof. I can't just barge in and demand-"

He released a long, noisy puff of breath. "Fine. I'll go." He announced and disappeared, leaving the detective's worried threats within the walls of the station behind him. Like she'd send him back to jail after he solved this. This could get her promoted. Hell, this would definitely get her promoted.

So he walked to the warehouse: back to square one.

It seemed as deserted as months earlier and a mouldy scent overbeared his senses as soon as he walked in.

He heard it before he could feel it. A thump. Then he felt it. Multiple times. There was sudden warmth on the top of his head and he reached up, coating his fingers in thick redness. What he felt next were his knees hitting the floor with a blunt thud. From that point onwards, a black velvet captured his consciousness.

His dreams screamed at him. _Your own death is something that happens to everybody else._

_But why would I care?_

A scene played out. Ian stood in front of him, his face shining burgundy, the presumed world around him covered in blackness. Ian took his face in his hands, touching him with his fingers. The screaming stopped. Everything shrunk to Ian's gentle touch on his cheeks. A whisper, then. _You got me._

_But I don't got you, do I?_

_You got me_. The whisper echoed. Ian's fingers let go, but the sound gripped him tightly, cutting off his breathing. _You got me._ It kept echoing and Mickey's chest felt tight, too tight. He tried swallowing, but his throat wouldn't obey. He tried to enhale, but his airway laughed at him. The echoing whisper faded, replaced completely by laughter.

The burgundy figure started evaporating into the blackness. „Don't!“ He screamed as he watched it shrink and disappear.

Everything ceased. There was only black silence.

A wet sensation on his cheeks. Black silence. It seemed to last for an eternity. It seemed to be just that: eternity.

 

-

 

"Detective."

"Ian! Haven't seen you in a while." She exclaimed politely, but rubbed her palms nervously.

He enhaled sharply, trying to steady his breathing. "Yeah, had some stuff to take care of." He decided being vague was the most appropriate response. They had only met a few times and had yet to establish any kind of relationship, yet alone a personal one. Besides, he was much too curious about the reason  behind her anxiety to talk about his issues with Mickey right now. "You okay? You seem kind of wired."

She swallowed. "Yeah, I- it's Mickey, actually. He stormed off and now he's not answering my phone."

Ian chuckled lightly. "It's Mickey, he always does that."

"Yes, but we were fighting about this case and he said he'd go take care of it himself, you know how he is, and how he's not answering and I'm getting worried."

Ian swallowed. It was probably nothing. One of Mickey's moods. He was probably at home, playing his guitar, thinking it over.

Who the hell was he kidding? It was Mickey, of course he wasn't _thinking it over._ Mickey never thought anything over in his life. He just came to his conclusions in a heartbeat and then acted on his gut and bragged about being clever to everyone later. _Fuck._

"I'm coming with.“ He announced, half-expecting for her to protest, but she just nodded slightly and started walking again. He followed.

"What's the case, anyway?" Ian inquired.

"Cases, actually. He thinks they're all connected."

He frowned. "Connected? Which ones?"

"The one at the warehouse, the bank robberies and the most recent one, you weren't on it, there was a girl found dead in an alley, poisoned. Anyway, he couldn't solve the last one for the past week. He's been-" She paused. "Distracted."

Ian frowned at the choice of words. _Distracted? Why would Mickey be—Oh._

"Okay, and what's the connection?"

"He talked for ages about it. Apparently, the sum of it is, the girls that were killed were the bank robbers. Something about their feet, I have no idea." She sighed, glancing over at Ian, making sure he was following this ridiculous trail of his boyfriend's thoughts (ex-boyfriend's?) "That's why the last robbery was different, two of them had already been killed so the remaining one found a replacement. Then she was killed, too. He didn't figure out that part yet." She shrugged and Ian looked at her, amused.

"Of course he did. It was the fake aliby guy from the first case." Ian smirked.

She looked at him. "That actually makes sense. His partner, or whatever they were, killed the two women after finding out his wife was a bank robber and the two of them were going to split the money. Then, he blamed his partner, taking his money as well, but he wasn't expecting the third girl would show up, so he killed her too."

"Yeah, but, one thing doesn't add up. There was another robbery in the meantime, right?"

"Yeah." She bit her cheek, thoughtful. Then she looked at him with a knowing smile. "He wanted to do more with the third girl. To get more money, so they went for it, but maybe something didn't work quite as they planned, they got into a fight or something."

"Maybe he wanted to do more and she refused?" Ian suggested and Lisa nodded in approval.

"Yeah, and he just killed her so he could have all the money. Makes perfect sense."

"Fucking Mickey." Ian shook his head with a smile on his face. Lisa's own smile was one of silent agreement.

They walked in silence for the rest of the distance, occasionally making small conversation. It was clear they were both edgy. Ian kept chewing on his lips and Lisa rubbed her palms far too frequently, sighing heavily.

The air grew colder as sun disintegrated into the ground and darkness loomed over Chicago.

When they arrived at the location, they were greeted by an empty warehouse and a mouldy, dizziness-inducing smell. They searched the building before heading quickly to their next location: Mack's (that was his name, Ian remembered) apartment.

"Listen, when we get there, you stay back, okay? You don't have a warrant." Ian said.

Lisa laughed. "You think I give a shit about a warrant? This is my boy we're talking about. Come hell or high water, I'm going inside." She shot back, her smile disappearing, quickly replaced by a determination Ian had only ever before seen in the army. And on Mickey. He registered the fond words and couldn't help his look from softening. "You care about him."

"I sure as hell do. What did you think, I got him out because he was charming?“ Ian laughed at the tone. He has so far spent only half an hour alone with the detective, but she reminded him so much of Mickey. She was fierce, tough, sarcastic, full of love. Everything he loved about Mickey. She had that same self-assured look on her face. She walked with the same strut. She talked with the same careless expression. She could have easily been mistaken for his mother if Mickey wasn't, well, white. She sure loved him like one, though, so why should blook have priority? He looked at her, but underneath the cold mask there was something, something hidden from view, and hidden so well, mind you, that he only saw it because he'd seen it in Mickey every time the man grew silent. Ian couldn't really put a finger on it, it seemed to him like a combination of a countless number of different things, all brought together in a fusion of beautiful, secluded warmth. It was the best kind of warmth, he thought, because it stood concealed by a million things, but radiated nonetheless from somewhere inside, exposed only to a selected few with a pass within the cult: _People who love deeply and fear deeper._ How Ian had got inside in the first place, he had no idea. But he had a permanent spot there, he knew, and he fit right in, as if the universe had carved it for him and stood waiting for Ian to find his way to it. _Ridiculous_ , he heard Mickey's voice inside of his head, _the_   _universe doesn't do shit for people like us._

_Nothing made me. I made me._

"He's a genious _._ " Ian stated.

"He is. Those have it worst." She said calmly and Ian felt sadness grip his insides. He swallowed hard.

"Yeah, they do."

She shot him a look. Annoyed by the explicit display of emotions, Ian assumed. Again, _Mickey._ "Don't make it into a sob story, he hates those."

"I know." Ian hated those as well.

Adrenaline shot through his veins as they approached the second floor of the building Mack lived in. Mickey could be in there, in god knows what state. What would he do if—

He couldn't stand to—

The last thing that he said to him—what was it? Something shitty, probably. Something selfish. Something angry. The last emotion that tied them was anger. What if he never got the chance to—

"Stop. Whatever you're thinking, stop it. Pull yourself together."

Ian enhaled deeply and nodded. Lisa busted the door open.

"What's with the dramatic entrance, Lisa?"  Mickey's voice said. Ian sighed in relief and stepped out from behind her. "Ian." The voice was startled. The face was bewildered. The body was tense.

"Sorry we're late." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, an early chapter to make up for the delays in the past few weeks.
> 
> Thank you for putting up with me and the story. I love you all!


	12. (-) but never said (-)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boys talking feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mild references to suicidal behaviour

Blackness turned into a dull pain on the top of his head.

Death.

What all aim for is a happy life.

Love, peace, fulfillment.

But what we all get, the only thing everyone is always bound to get from life is death.

He smiled, remembering the familiar pattern of thoughts. It was when he was thirteen that his brain first worked out the logistics. There was a lot in the world to fear and to mourn: war, injustice, abuse, pain, illness: the list was endless. But, death? Death was not to fear or to mourn.

Because death was mandatory. Death obliged. Death was reliable, transcending all and sparing none.

Death was not to be feared or mourned, death was to be accepted without reluctance; because that was the one and only way to live properly.

So he smiled, because he had lived properly. He had made mistakes and he had learned, not necessarily in that order. He had learned to let himself go and give his best selflessly. He had learned to appreciate fine music and fine art and he had produced it, to a degree, and shared with whoever wanted to listen. He solved the puzzle, even if it would end up undiscovered by anyone other than him. He had done it, his mind told him, so he smiled. He didn't fear. He didn't mourn. He welcomed his death with an open heart because Mickey Milkovich had lived properly.

As it turned out, he even loved properly. There was a redhead somewhere, oblivious to the situation Mickey was in. He was somewhere out there, living his life, probably working by now, recovered from his past, building a new life. They might have not been much, they might have not been anything at all by someone's standards, but all Mickey's brain ran to ever since that day were the words Ian spoke to him. You got me. So, it was something to him and no one could ever deny that. It had probably been something to Ian as well, he figured, remembering the way Ian's fingers felt on his cheeks. So persistent, so gentle, so revealing. They must have meant something, those words, those echoing words that haunted him. You got me. You got me. You got me.

His smile faltered. He bit his lip, annoyed.

He didn't fear death. But the thought of dying like this, here, in this dark, empty room, with so many words unsaid, so many things undone, so many knowledge unlearned, suddenly angered him. The temperature in his chest rose quickly, leaving his breathing heavy. He let himself be manhandled from the car into the building where he assumed he was going to be murdered. What he hadn't predicted, though, was that Mack would be so stupid to take him to his apartment. He laughed a little to himself before calling out for Mack, who was unlocking the door, and headbutted him expertly when the man turned his head towards him. Well, that was easy, he thought.

Lisa would be getting there soon, he realised, because that woman could never keep her head out of his business for more than ten minutes. So he picked Mack up and tossed him on his bead, tying him to the headboard. The man jerked his limbs uncontrollably, but Mickey just laughed at the sight. His screaming was getting a little annoying, though, so Mickey shuffled the drawers and found some duct tape. When he applied it to the man's mouth, he moved back and ducked his head a little.

"Gotta go now, Mack, dear. This is the boring part, I know, but the fun should resume shortly." He winked mischievously at the raging lunatic on the bed. "Oh, stop squirming, you're boring me." He rolled his eyes and left for the bathroom to rinse off the dried blood in his hair. He touched the wound a little, satisfied with how superficial it felt. He washed his face, feeling a little more dizzy than he predicted, so he left the bathroom and settled for the couch, waiting.

Lisa should be there shortly.

 

-

 

"Ian." He blinked.

"Mickey?" Ian whispered, frowning.

"What the fuck did you do, Mikhailo?" Lisa interrupted the intense glare between the two. Mickey shifted his gaze onto her and pointed in the direction of the bedroom with his head.

"He's in there. Go do your police mumbo jumbo."

She shot him a reproaching look, but left for the bedroom without a word. Mickey's look shifted back to Ian to find the man staring nervously at him. He swallowed.

"What are you doing here, Ian?"

"I-" He trailed off and shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know, I wanted to see you, then I met Lisa by the diner and she told me she was looking for you and I-" He shrugged again. "I don't know, I was scared you were gonna do something stupid."

Mickey's eyebrow rose as his chest suddenly tightened, his brain remembering the dream he had while he was knocked out. "I did, kind of, I guess." He looked at the floor, trying not to notice the disappointment in Ian's eyes lasting no more than a second. "Ian, I-" He was interrupted by loud movement from the room next to them as Lisa guided Mack out in handcuffs.

"You fucking idiot. I swear to god, Mickey, do this to me again and it's your head. You understand?" She shook her head in irritation. "I gotta call this in. I'll be outside." She added understandingly and left the apartment with the suspect.

All that was left was silence.

They looked at each other, the two men, both of them lost for words.

"Ian, we need to talk." Mickey was the first to speak and he licked a lip unconsciously, impatient and nervous at the same time. Ian nodded.

"Yeah. But first, take your clothes off."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me." Ian stated and it only took one look at his face for Mickey to know he was being serious. The reaction was immediate. He swiftly undid his belt and pulled his pants down in a motion. "Boxers too. Shirt can stay." Ian added to clear any possible doubt. Mickey obeyed and a second later, he was naked from waist down, waiting for further instructions. Ian smiled and approached him slowly. He took his hand and pulled him up, falling immediately down in front of him. Mickey blinked in shock, but stood firm on his feet. When Ian's soft breath lingered on his thigh, he closed his eyes, fully taking in the moment he had been missing for weeks. He kept his eyes closed and breathed slowly as Ian's fingers brushed past his calves, knees and thighs, stilling finally on the small of his back, holding him firmly. This feeling, he thought, this feeling of completeness in submission, he had only ever felt with Ian. This feeling, being someone's entirely, handing your mind over to someone else, trusting him with it, wanting him to have it, to use it, to love it, knowing he would cherish it – who knew it could be that liberating? Who knew it would allow him to finally, _finally feel_ , free of all predisposement. To free your mind, as they say, who could have known it would feel this good? When Ian's mouth finally took him in deep, he sighed in relief. It was everything: the adrenaline, the freedom, the pleasure – everything in a single sensation. In a single person. As Ian's mouth moved faster, Mickey breathed quicker and smiled wider. When it all got too much, he brushed his fingers through the red hair, feeling the familiar texture, and came undone in the mouth around him. His knees gave out not a moment afterwards and he fell, head to head with Ian, and kissed him deeply, tasting himself on the inside of the man's mouth. Ian put his fingers on Mickey cheeks, and there it was again, Mickey thought for himself, finally. They breathed together, their eyes lost in each other. Mickey's throat tightened, leaving their now slow kisses breathless. Ian pulled away a little and Mickey felt warmth spread from the gentle, green eyes all over his face. He smiled a little, and when Ian smiled back, his whole body relaxed on his knees. "I missed you." He somehow said and Ian nodded.

"You're a fucking idiot." He whispered.  "I missed you too." He raised an eyebrow. "Obviously."

Mickey couldn't predict the warm laugh that rolled out of his lungs at the man in front of him and he kissed him again, briefly, trailing his hands over his shoulders and arms gently. When he continued down his back, Ian's hands stopped him. "We can't. We gotta get down before Lisa gets suspicious." Mickey bit his lip, acknowledging his words and he fumbled for his clothes, tugging them on casually. They stood up.

"Let's go, then." Mickey suggested and Ian left for Mickey to follow.

When they got in front of the building, Lisa was just getting Mack into the police car with an officer in the driver's seat. She heard them exit and turned her head towards them, slamming the door of the car. "You guys need a lift?"

Mickey looked at Ian, who shrugged casually. "Nope, we're good. Thanks." Mickey replied and Lisa nodded. "No problem. I'll need you down at the station tomorrow morning, though. Both of you." She raised an eyebrow and when Mickey rolled his eyes predictably, she got into the car and they drove away.

"God, I love that woman." Ian stated as they watched the car leave and Mickey frowned in surprise.

"Excuse me?" He turned to Ian, waiting for an explanation.

"What?" Ian looked at him. "She's an amazing woman, Mickey. I know you know that."

Mickey looked back at the empty road. "Yeah, she's pretty badass." He smiled briefly to the realisation. The truth was, if he had ever known love in his life, Lisa was one of the few people that helped him discover it. She had always been there for the last eight years, not letting him give up on himself, forcing him to think and to work and to live again. If there wasn't for her, he'd be stuck in jail for the rest of his youth and longer, wasting his years and his abilities, waiting for death. If there wasn't for her, he realised now, he wouldn't have met Ian in the next ten years or so, or, maybe, never. She had always been there, always, taking silent care of him like a reliable, loving, sassy mother he never had. _I owe you so much_ , he remembered saying on his first day out of prison. _I owe you so much._ He remembered the short, affectionate smile on her face before it was replaced with a sarcastic expression. _Don't get soft on me now, Mikhailo_ , she had said and Mickey loved her for that – for being inside of his brain, for reflecting his thoughts unconsciously. She had always been there, he knew that now, but she never pushed too hard, leaving their relationship professional, allowing Mickey to figure himself out in his own time, just like every good parent did with their children. The man he was today, he was because of her, but not because she had pushed him towards it, but because she had let him discover it himself.

"Come on, let's go eat something." Ian suggested, bringing Mickey out of his head and back to present reality.

"Guide the way, captain."

Ian laughed. "Not a captain." He paused. "But I don't mind the title." He glanced over at Mickey and Mickey bit his lip teasingly.

"I know you don't." He responded and Ian huffed out a short laugh. They walked.

 

-

 

"We do gotta talk." Ian said when they ordered their food and Brenda filled their cups with coffee.

"Yeah, man." Mickey agreed and took a sip out of his mug.

"I'm listening." Ian settled back in his chair and a corner of his lips quirked up a little.

"I, um- I'm sorry about before. I get it now, I wasn't- thinking,  I get it."

"You do?"

"Yeah, I- I had a dream when Mack knocked me out-"

Ian's eyes widened in shock. "He knocked you out? What the fuck, Mickey? You didn't think that was an important information?!"

"It's fine, I'm fine, my head bled a little and I was unconscious for like half an hour or so, but I'm fine, just gotta eat something."

Ian's eyes widened even further, if such thing was even possible, Mickey thought. "We're going to a hospital. Right now."

"No, Ian. I gotta eat now, please. It's superficial, look." He bent his head before Ian could protest and Ian reached out over the table to move Mickey's hair and inspect the top of his head. Mickey could feel Ian's fingers touching lightly around the wound before Ian's other hand pulled him up. "It looks fine, it doesn't need stitching. But you should still go check for a concussion. Are you dizzy? Does it hurt? Do you remember everything that happened?" Ian's voice was calm now, his questions determinate, his on-duty mode on.

"I'm fine, it hurts a little but really, I'm fine."

"We're going to a hospital after you eat." Ian decided.

Mickey rolled his eyes. "Fucking fine, can you just chill now?"

Ian's shoulders visibly relaxed after the compromise was reached and he took a sip of his coffee, leaning back in his chair. "So. You were saying?"

"Yeah, I had this dream, it was weird, but all I could hear was your voice. You were saying-" He paused and frowned, uncomfortable, feeling suddenly like a little, helpless child in front of this man whom he needed so much, who made him feel so differently than he could have anticipated, who understood him and guided him forward in every sense, who needed him to say something sensible right now, waiting patiently for an explanation for whatever Mickey thought required explanation. "You got me. You probably don't remember it, but-"

"I remember." Ian cut in and Mickey blinked, silent. Ian arched an eyebrow in encouragment.

"Yeah, that. You kept saying that and you did this thing with your hands, I felt them on my cheeks, I didn't see, but I felt it, it was-" He swallowed. "It was everything, Ian." He cleared his throat, looking straight at Ian, who was smiling gently at the words. "So when I woke up, my brain kind of connected the dots. I don't wanna die, not while I- not while I got you, not yet, Ian, I-“ He breathed. "This is new for me, I never cared about all that life or death shit, but I- now I think I- I'd miss too much if I died. Too much of you, too much of everything. And I don't wanna miss that." He concluded and Ian nodded in understanding.

"Basically, this translates into 'I need you and I wanna live because I got you, please, Ian, don't ever leave me'."

Mickey laughed. "Fucking fine, jackass. You're the one who left all freaked out over me not caring or whatever."

"I'm sorry, I know, it's just-" Ian shrugged with a smile on his face. "Mickey Milkovich, the ultimate sociopath, talking about his feelings. It's unprecedented."

"Yeah, well, growth or whatever." Mickey added sarcastically.

"Yeah, I guess it is." Ian said and looked next to Mickey, clearly thinking about something. The anxiety in Mickey's stomach grew a little after the adrenaline of talking about what he knew very little about started wearing off, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, waiting for Ian to say something, whatever, just to speak, to clear the air a little, to pick Mickey up from where he was left hanging. Mickey knew Ian had felt a lot for him, if it was love, Mickey couldn't tell, but it was definitely something that made him so smiley when they woke and so hungry when they kissed; so nervous when they fought and so patient when they talked. It was something big, Mickey knew this, something serious, that Ian felt for him: he knew because he felt it too. If people called it love, fine, love it was. But it was angsty, sitting at that diner, waiting for Ian to process what he had heard and to respond somehow. Mickey's mouth grew dry and he took another gulp of his coffee, restless from anticipation. Only a few seconds passed, he realized, but his anxiety drew them out in what felt like an eternity.

"You do. You do got me, Mick." The words reached his brain and he blinked, staring at Ian. His look sharpened and across from him sat this man, this beautiful, tender, loving man and he was _his_. And for the first time, Mickey actually felt it, he felt like he's got him, wherever he went, whatever he did, he's got him. His brain flew over all the times he had played for him, letting his tune flow freely from the confines of his mind and heart, entertwined. Over all the times Ian tore him apart and put him back together in a tender, blissful serenity. Over all the times they laughed and bickered and solved all the crime puzzles Chicago had to offer together, over all the times they waited for Lisa around the station, frustrated by the bureaucracy, but content to be with each other. Mickey's brain flew over all Ian's looks: Ian's morning look, hazed and pure. Ian's look when Mickey played for him: peaceful and fond. Ian's look when he was climaxing: lost and found. Ian's look when they went to sleep: calm and content. "You always got me. I need you to know that. Always." 

Ian's look right now: affectionate, heartfelt, secure.

"Fuck." Mickey swallowed. "I think I'm in love with you."

Ian chuckled. "About fucking time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been too long, I know, and I'm sorry. I hope this chapter makes up for it. Please leave feedback, I love you :)


	13. (-) Say it now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domestic.

The rain fell heavily on the rooftops. They gazed through clouded windows, struggling to catch some daylight amidst the deep haze surrounding them. Chicago in the springtime was a beautiful and an annoying experience, Ian thought, wrapped tightly in the warm body next to him. Their heavy breathing subsided eventually and all that was left was the loud sound of hard rain on the window glass, engulfing the room and drowning the sounds of Ian's hands running slowly through Mickey's hair.

"I missed this." He swallowed. "The scent of you, the feel of you, being inside of you. The way your chest relax when I touch your hair. The way your eyelids flutter when I brush past your cheek." He smiled, staring still at the grey dusk upon them. The muscles next to him tensed slightly, but only took a moment to relax again and Mickey took a deep breath and huffed out a small, joyful laugh. Ian imitated the sound.

"Man, you've gone soft, what am I gonna do with you on crime scenes now?"

"Easy." Ian said.  "You're gonna do what you've always done. Stand back and watch me work." He bit his lip and waited for a laugh, but Mickey laugh this time, he just slowly pulled his hand up and grabbed Ian's head instead, pulling him down and crashing their lips together. Ian smiled into the kiss. It was gentle, but with a rough undertone, a pure expression of fondness, warmth, content.

"Okay, okay. Calm down over there, big shot." Mickey rolled his eyes and Ian ruffled his hair, saying nothing back. The sound of rain took over the room again and the boys breathed together, lost completely in the brave, new world they were creating. It was it, it was theirs, they both knew now, they both felt it, they both accepted it. They breathed together and for the first time in a long time, it was okay. It was perfectly normal and acceptable to just need someone, to want someone, to feel as if you belong somewhere and not fear over having that taken away. For Ian, it had been his friends in the war zone. For Mickey, it had been his family, the only people he allowed himself to get attached to. For both of them, it was a life taken away. Ian's, lost in the war zone: years of friendship, all dead; years of hoping, all dead; years of running, all dead, leaving him to pick himself up and go somewhere else, searching for something new again, trying to live and to forget and to dream again. Mickey's, life taken away by the ruthless walls of prison he spent years convincing himself he belonged in, years of friendship, all dead; years of hoping, all dead; years of running, all dead, leaving him to pick himself up and find a place inside of the place no one ever found a place in, a place serving only to shame him and dehumanize him and leave him alone to rot inside of his own brain.

Somehow, they broke out. They ran and ran and they never looked back, neither of them.

They ran and they found themselves here: in each other's arms. How that happened, neither knew. Neither ever needed to know. Somehow, their luck came through and led them there, in a bed together, allowing them to breathe and to smile and to dream again.

Of what?

Who knew? Of life? Love? Happiness? Solving crimes and running through Chicago high on adrenaline, arms brushing all along. Composing music. Playing music. Saving lives. Eating pie. Smoking cigarettes. Dominating. Being dominated. Rehabilitating. Building something out of nothing. Building life out of death.

Somehow, they got a chance to do that.

They got a chance to do that together.

No one knew what life would lead to. But they sure as hell never dreamed it would have led to this: to this rain melody, warm intimacy, fearlessness, complete comfort. They sure as hell never dreamed they would get a chance to forget everything they once were, everything they had to let die in themselves and everything they chose to kill in order to survive. They sure as hell never dreamed of being free, of being whole, of reaching any kind of peace with themselves.

They were horrible men. Broken men, both of them. They did things no one would be proud of. They carried bags of regret on their shoulders. They grieved and they raged and they lived on, given up on new beginnings.

But here it was, a new beginning.

Building something out of nothing. Building life out of death.

"Whatcha thinkin' about?" Mickey's soft voice rang through the silent room. The rain only drizzled now, providing them with a new sense of calm after a storm.

"You should know." Ian retorted. "You're Mickey Milkovich." He said smugly and Mickey raised an eyebrow, accepting the challenge.

"Okay, fine. But you asked for it." He warned.

Ian nodded.

"Okay. The rain is clearly calming you as you have had no tremors in your left arm while brushing it through my hair for the past fifteen minutes. Actually, it's probably the combination of the rain and the release of dopamine that relaxed you. You're clearly thinking, but about something that doesn't trouble you the slightest, since you've not once moved or stopped touching my hair to indicate you got lost in thought. So, the question is, what makes you happy and relaxed? It can't be sex, since you've just had it, it can't be anything work or family related, since that stresses you out. Not about the past, either. So, something about the present and a newer part of your life. All considered, it's clearly about me since you've made no other important acquaintances in the past six months or so. Nothing you'd be that content about, at least. So, me. You're thinking about me. But what about me? We did just have sex. And before that, you sucked my dick. And before that, we were fighting a criminal and you sucked my dick in the middle of his apartment. Keep doing that, by the way. A great combination of adrenaline and dopamine." Mickey stopped, smiling blissfully, remembering the events of the day. "Oh." He exclaimed. "Except for all the sex, we also talked about my feelings and you seemed to be very smug about my emotional awakening. So, logically, that's what you're thinking about. You're thinking about me being in love with you."

Ian shook his head in disbelief and smiled. "Fuck, Mickey, that was incredible. I know I keep saying shit like that, but I can't get used to it. Just listening to you think out loud amazes me every time. And yeah, that's pretty much it. That and, you know, new beginnins.“

"Fuck, Ian, that sounds so corny." Mickey raised his eyebrows and Ian chuckled.

"It really does." He smiled. "It really is. But I don't give a fuck, I feel like I've been granted a new life after everything that happened-" He swallowed. "We've been given a new chance and fuck me if I'm not gonna make the most of it."

"Oh, God." Mickey rubbed his eyes with his fingers. "Is this a marriage proposal? Because if it is, Ian, I swear to Go-"

"No, no, no, no." Ian laughed. "Hell no. What the fuck, Mickey?"

"Because you know how I feel about marriage."

"And you know I feel the same fucking way, Mickey. Chill the fuck out." Ian let his hand fall from Mickey's head in frustration.

Mickey enhaled deeply. "Okay, okay, yeah. I just got freaked out for a second there. Sorry."

"It's fine." Ian said with a grave face and Mickey looked up at him, frowning.

"Hey, I'm sorry. I overreacted."

"I just wanna be able to say what's on my mind without you freaking out.“ Ian said and shrugged his shoulders. Mickey took his hand and put it slowly back in his hair, settling back into the position they were in. Ian's warm body embraced him and he smiled to himself before thinking of something reassuring to say to Ian.

He breathed. "Look, Ian. You can say everything to me. Look. You're touching my hair and we're in bed together and I love you and it's pretty fucking great, if you ask me. I nev-"

"You love me." Ian repeated calmly, almost as if reassuring himself.

"Can I fucking finish? Jesus." Mickey's eyes widened. "I never thought I'd be here. In my bed with a crazy fucking army med tech, fucking cuddling or whatever this is. But I'm here and it's so different from everything I'd ever known. From how life worked, from how relationships worked. But I'm still learning so all I ask is for some patience, Ian. Can you do that?"

"You love me." The voice was tentative, almost a whisper.

"I do, yeah. I thought we absorbed that."

"We did, I just-" Ian shrugged. "I love you. I never said. I never said anything, actually. How can I when as soon as I say anything you get a panic attack." He chuckled. "But I should, you know, say some stuff. You've just said-" He swallowed. "You've just said everything I ever needed to hear from you, Mick. You've said it all and you weren't even trying to say anything. You could have just said you were still learning, but you said all this stuff-"

"Hey. Hey. Shut up. Look at me."

Ian shifted his gaze from the window to Mickey's face below him. "You're blabbering. Stop it. You love me. I play for you and you feel like you have a home again. I look at you and you feel like you have a future again. You touch my hair to make sure I'm real, I'm not just a dream like one of those nightmares of yours. But I'm real, I'm here, I love you. And I know, I know all of it. I'm Mickey Milkovich, for fuck's sake. Of course I know. So stop worrying and relax because all you never said, I heard it anyway. Okay?"

Ian blinked and stared blankly, but said nothing. "Ian." Mickey repositioned and took Ian's head in his arms. "All you never said, I heard it anyway." He smiled slightly and waited for Ian to react. He blinked again and cleared his throat. He opened his mouth to speak, but he just cleared his throat again and closed them back shut. "I know." Mickey smiled. "Now I'm gonna make some coffee and we can watch a movie and I can predict everything that happens. You down?"

Ian laughed now, still taken aback by Mickey's tenderness. He nodded his head, relaxing gradually. Mickey got out of his embrace and went to the kitchen, leaving Ian to settle back into their little reality, into their new beginning.

It was crazy, he thought, getting a chance to be someone entirely new, but still keeping everything important about yourself and creating something, reinventing yourself, a beginning, an unpredictable future, but a future nonetheless, a future with the most amazing, brilliant, exciting man he ever met. The only man he ever loved. And here he was, making him coffee and loving him  back effortlessly, like it was always meant to be just the two of them, drinking coffee and listening to the rain press pause on the only place they ever called home.

They should leave, Ian decided. Not now, but in five years, when Mickey's contract with the police expired. Surely they had criminals down at Mexico, too. And a little sun could barely hurt.

He smiled at the thought and walked over to the kitchen. Two coffee mugs lay on the table and Mickey was just getting toast out of the toaster. "Figured we could use something to eat. It's been a long day, right?"

"Right." Ian said as he took his seat. The coffee was strong, but sweet and he smiled into the cup, remembering the first time Mickey had made coffee for him, guessing exactly the right amount of sugar without having to ask. That was Mickey Milkovich for you, everything a man could wish for, and more. So much more. He loved him like crazy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They deserve some domestic bliss, I think. So here it is, in my version.
> 
> Next up is the Epilogue. Thank you for being patient with me!

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I'm not a native English speaker, so I apologize for any inconsistencies or out-right mistakes. This is also unbeta'd. That being said, I still hope it's enjoyable enough. All feedback is welcome!
> 
> All aesthetic moodboards are made by my talented friend Farah and you can check the rest of her work out on Twitter. @waitinginsamara


End file.
